Looking into the Sun
by xelectrogirlx
Summary: A chronicle of the lives of the Cullens from Carlisle and Esme's POV, beginning in 1911. Rated 'M' in later chapters for Charles and his unforgivable behaviour towards Esme *warning now - graphic!*
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: For anyone who is reading 'Battle of the Angels', it WILL be finished... eventually! But this idea has been growing in my mind for some time now and I thought I would be driven mad if I didn't write it. I know there are quite a few of these about, but I don't care, I want to give my own spin to it. It's rated T at the moment, but there are a few chapters ahead when the rating will go up because of Charles. I hate him so much but kinda enjoy writing him! Anyway... read on and review if you will.**

**Warnings: None in this chapter. Plenty in further chapters to come.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. If I did, Peter Facinelli would be a closet in my room.**

**Chapter One**

September 15th 1911

**Esme's POV**

The late afternoon is hot, unseasonably so. The sun, although it has almost completed its journey across the velvet blue sky, still burns down turning all that it touches into gold. Gold has always been one of my favorite colors. It seems to me that it is full of joy and promise. Gold is the color of the ears of corn ripening in the fields, leaves in autumn and of course, the sun. My father would say that gold means riches. Cold hard money. There are more important things.

I sit, curled up in the corner of the couch, peering out of the window. My sewing lies forgotten on the small sidetable. Is there anything more dull than pulling a thread endlessly through a section of fabric with a needle? I would much rather be out in the garden sketching or climbing the trees in the orchard. Sighing deeply I eye the small square of cloth on the table next to me.

I can hear my mother moving around upstairs. She will not notice if I go outside for half an hour or so. Guiltily I rise from the cushioned seat and run toward the back door, casting one look behind me at my abandoned sewing.

I pull on my old leather ankle boots which I use when I am occasionally required to help my father in the fields. That is not often, these days, as my mother believes that a sixteen-year-old girl should be occupied with more maidenly pursuits. I contemplate throwing a shawl over my shoulders, but the sun is still beaming brightly and I decide to forgo it for now.

My spirits soar as soon as I am outside. I love nature, I always have. As I head toward the orchard the leaves crunch under my feet, they are just starting to brown with the beginning of the fall.

'Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,' I murmur to myself as I make my way to my favorite tree. It is a knarled and twisting spiral of wood, towering far into the sky. Most of the apple trees are virtually the same, straight and uniform. I've always liked this one because it is so unusual. Just for a moment I take the time to wander around the base of the trunk, running my fingers along the bark. My mother would scream if she could see me. She always complains that the skin on my hands is rough and un-ladylike thanks to all the time I spend in branches. I know she despairs of ever finding me a husband. _Husband_. Just the word panics me. I am only sixteen! I do not want to belong to a man who will probably turn out exactly like my father... gruff, violent and temperamental. I am not completely naïve in the ways of the world. I am well aware of the looks I get whenever I am in town with mother or father. The stares of men. I know that my mother especially is hoping for a good marriage for me. I am their only child and they have pinned all their hopes for a happy future on me making a good match.

Ever since I turned sixteen, this has become more of an issue in our household. My mother has taken to teaching me 'maidenly' pursuits such as sewing, painting and playing the piano. The painting I do not mind so much as it is very similar to my sketching. But the other activities bore me to tears. Sometimes I wonder if my mother is truly happy. I doubt that she can be. Being married to a man who is often violent toward her. Having to run the household by herself. I do not want any of these things for myself.

Abruptly I start to heave myself into the branches, aware that I am getting smudges of green sap on my white dress. My mother will scold me and then tell my father when he gets in from the fields. He will then beat me for being so careless with my clothing and climbing trees when I should be helping with the chores. But somehow, I do not mind. Not here, not among the branches and the leaves with the sun burning down and warming my pale skin. The smell of apples, earth and bark is strong and I relax against the branch. It is peaceful here, with nothing but the birdsong for company.

'Esme! Useless child, where are you?' My mother shrieks from the porch, scanning the garden, trying to find me.

My grip on the branch I am holding onto falters and I jerk at the sound of her voice. Too late I find myself falling, unable to clutch onto anything to halt my descent. The branches flash past me in a blur and then suddenly I hit the earth.

_Crack!_

I am aware that my body has landed on the ground at an odd angle. There is a split moment of peace and then the pain starts shooting up my leg. It is like nothing I have ever experienced. The agony is stabbing and unrelenting. Unable to help myself I let out a cry of pain and feel the warm tears start spurting from my eyes and course down my pale cheeks. The pain makes it hard to concentrate on anything, yet I am sure I hear my mother come running. She has undoubtedly heard my cry.

Sure enough she reaches me within minutes and I can sense her kneeling beside me. A hand reaches out to stroke back the errant curls which have clustered on my forehead which is now damp with sweat.

'Esme? Honey?' There is a pause as she takes in the sight of my crooked leg. 'John! John, come quick!' she cries. Our farm is a small one, and at this time of the day, when it is virtually evening, my father will be making his way back. Sure enough, after a time, I hear his heavy tread thudding on the earth, sending reverberations through my head.

'What on earth...?' I hear him shout, as he sees me. 'Helen, what has the stupid girl been doing now?'

I can feel my mother run hands over my injured leg and I moan as the pain intensifies. 'I think she's broken her leg. Can you call Dr Phillips? And get one of the farmhands to carry her into the house.'

This surprises me. Usually my mother would never have spoken to my father in this manner. But panic is evident in her tone, and it doesn't seem she cares. What is even stranger is that I hear my father agree.

'I'll get Will to help her into the house.' I hear him run towards our home, calling out for Will as he does so.

Soon enough I am being lifted by strong arms. My leg jolts as I am hauled into the air and I bite my lip. I can feel the sweat beading my forehead, dampening the dark brown curls. Then I am being laid gently down on the couch and someone, Will perhaps, carefully places my broken leg on the cushions.

My mother moves around the room, drawing the curtains and lighting the lamps. Evening has truly fallen now. I lie on the couch, only vaguely aware of her movements. After a few minutes I hear my father enter.

'Dr. Phillips is on vacation,' he announces glumly. I am glad of this. Our family doctor, scares me. He has wild black hair and staring eyes. He has also never made a secret of his desire to court me. He looks like he is in his fifties! 'The hospital said they would send another man... a Dr. Cullen.'

'Did you hear that, Esme?' my mother asks, in a tone that is far gentler than any she usually employs with me. 'Dr. Cullen will be here soon and he'll fix your leg up for you.'

'Damn foolish thing to be doing,' my father mutters to himself. 'You're too old for that sort of behavior, Esme. You should be helping your mother around the house and finding yourself a husband. We will have words after your leg is healed.' I shudder. I know exactly what he means by _having words_.

Only the ticking of the clock in the drawing room marks the passage of time. I toss on the couch, my leg unbearably painful. At some point my mother sends for a cold flannel to press onto my forehead, which does help a little.

Suddenly there is a knock on the door. My head swiftly moves toward the noise... at the promise of swift relief from the pain. My father moves out of the room and down the hallway.

'Dr. Cullen?' he asks, and I presume the man replies in the affirmative. 'Good. She's in the drawing room... I'll show you the way.'

There is the sound of footsteps; my father's heavy footfall and a lighter tap which must be this Dr. Cullen. Then the door opens and my mother stands up to greet the new arrival. My view of him is blocked by her back, but I hear his voice as she greets him and there is something strange in her tone. She seems almost breathless.

'Dr. Cullen, it's a pleasure. I am Helen Platt. My daughter, Esme, we think she's broken her leg.'

'It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mrs Platt. I'd like to take a look at young Miss Platt, if you wouldn't mind.' The voice. It is deep and reassuring. Very masculine yet somehow caring. I feel myself relax without even meaning to. My mother moves from her position in front of the couch, allowing me to see this Dr. Cullen for the first time.

Words cannot describe him. He looks like an angel, standing there, framed by the light from the hallway. His blonde hair is smoothed back from his face, which is strong and formed of chiselled cheekbones. Yet it is his eyes which pin me to the couch with awe. They are deep and golden, full of a depth I cannot understand. It seems that they pierce right to my very soul, and I can feel myself blushing. He smiles as he catches sight of me, and I turn a deeper crimson, fully aware that I must cut a hideous sight. Lying on the couch with a sap-stained dress and old leather boots, my curly hair matted and sweaty. I understand now why my mother sounded breathless. This man looks like one of the Greek Gods I have learned about. Apollo... God of the Sun. Yes, that sounds about right.

Apollo crosses to me and kneels beside the couch, that warm genuine smile still on his face.

'Hello, Miss Platt. I'm Doctor Cullen. Can you tell me what happened to your leg?' His voice is rich and gentle, instantly soothing.

'I... I was climbing a tree...' I start hesitantly, glancing to my mother who rolls her eyes heavenward. 'My mother startled me and I fell.'

Those full lips twist upwards as he looks at my face. 'I see. Climbing a tree, were you?'

'I've told her... it's not fitting for a lady to go gadding about in the orchard. But she doesn't listen to me!' my mother bursts out.

'Oh, I don't know,' Doctor Cullen says wryly. 'I've always believed it is good to keep an element of innocent fun in life. Otherwise, what is the point?'

_What indeed?_ I think, and smile hesitantly at the heavenly face hovering near mine. He smiles back at me and tilts his head to the side, eyeing my leg.

'With your permission Miss Platt I'm just going to feel for the break. Is that okay with you?' Unable to say anything I merely nod and feel my face flushing yet again. I hear my father cough from the corner of the room as Doctor Cullen raises the hem of my dress up above my knees and I know he is thinking how inappropriate that action is, even if the man doing it is a doctor. For my part, my skin is thrilling at his touch... his icy fingers on my burning flesh. Doctor Cullen's hands are unusually cold it is true, but this doesn't bother me unduly. In fact it feels soothing as my leg appears to be burning with pain.

'I am very sorry if this is uncomfortable. I have been told I have cold hands,' he murmurs to me, clearly mistaking my expression for one of discomfort.

'No, it's fine. I mean they are cold, but I...' my words falter as I stumble to a halt. My father coughs again from the corner of the room and Doctor Cullen turns his attention once again to the issue at hand.

'Do you want the good news or the bad news?' he asks me after a minute or so of feeling the bone which sends agonizing jolts of pain up my thigh and through my spine. I brush a sweaty tendril of hair out of my eyes.

'I suppose I should hear the bad news first,' I stammer, my gaze awkwardly meeting his face and I begin blushing all over again.

'Well, the bad news is that you won't be climbing trees again for at least eight weeks, Miss Platt.' He winks at me and a tiny smile quirks the corner of his lips. It is truly amazing how an action that simple can send thrills of fire racing through my body. 'The good news is that it is a simple break and should heal with no difficulties.'

My father shifts from his position and I hear him approach the couch. 'So that means she can't do any chores for the next eight weeks then, Doctor?' His voice is rough and harsh. Most men often feel intimidated by my father as he stands at over six feet and is built like an ox. When he uses his threatening or unfriendly voice, as he is doing now, they usually flinch or bristle as if their masculinity is being challenged. The blonde-haired doctor does neither as if my father's tone does not bother him in the slightest. Admiration for this enigmatic man floods me.

He stands easily and faces my father. He is not quite as tall, and not as muscular, but there is something about his stance which somehow suggests to me that it would be a mistake to try to intimidate him. Perhaps my father guesses this also as his shoulders slump slightly and his posture loosens.

'That is correct, Mr Platt. If your daughter's leg is to heal quickly and effectively she should not be troubled with chores around the house. I prescribe plenty of bedrest. In cases such as these it is often the best cure. I will set the break now and return in about a month's time to take the cast off. After it is removed I advise Miss Platt to start taking short strolls around the house to get used to walking properly again.' He turns to me once more. 'Are you fond of books?'

The question takes me slightly by surprise. As a matter of fact I am, although I prefer to be outdoors. I tell him so and he nods.

'Good. I imagine you will be doing a lot of reading in the next few weeks,' he murmurs. 'As for going outside, I would prefer it if you left that until the cast is removed.' My heart sinks slightly at the gloomy prospect of being closeted away in the house for almost a month but I cannot argue with this man. Not when he is looking at me in such a penetrating and almost, God forgive me, alluring manner.

I almost want him to leave. I feel like I cannot trust my body and my mind to behave appropriately when I am around him. I find it easy when my mother finds various suitors for me from the men around town. It is easy to act chaste and shy with them because the reality is that I wouldn't want to touch them with a ten-foot-pole. But now it is different. _So_ different and I am feeling things I am not sure I want to feel.

I cast my eyes down, as though I am saddened at the prospect of spending the next few weeks indoors, which I am, when in fact I am trying to conceal the blush I can feel spreading across my cheeks.

I hear, rather than see, Doctor Cullen get to his feet. Almost immediately I find I am missing having him kneeling beside me, taking care of me. He is talking to my father, I hear them murmuring together in the corner of the room. But I cannot pay attention to their words. I am attempting to rid my mind of very inappropriate thoughts of Doctor Cullen. I do not even know his first name and I am already sinning!

Soon he returns, gently telling me he is going to start setting the break... and all I can see is his golden eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This chapter is quite a bit shorter than the previous one but I felt that it is sort of a companion piece to the first. Please let me know what you think – I have at least four more chapters already written so updates will be very regular, probably every two days or something.**

**Warnings: None.**

**Disclaimer: Twilight absolutely, in no way belongs to me.**

**Chapter Two**

12th October 1911

The break takes what seems like an age to heal. I spend my time confined to either my room or the drawing room, armed with my novel. I have taken Doctor Cullen's advice to heart and occupy myself with reading. It is certainly strange. I have often enjoyed reading but have far preferred to spend my time in the outdoors. Now that is forbidden to me, it is like I have rediscovered a pleasure long denied.

I also find myself seeking out all the romance books in the house. I have a few myself, but after devouring those, I start looking in my mother's collection. Before now I have never really had an appetite for romance novels, seeing them as overly emotional slush... not connected in any way to reality.

Now, however, all that I read I connect to Doctor Cullen. All the dashing heroes assume shining blonde hair and brilliant golden eyes in my imagination. When the heroines talk of how much they _long_ for the particular leading man, I sympathise, my heart aching.

He is coming tomorrow to remove the cast and I find myself looking forward to and also dreading the meeting. How will I be able to conduct myself properly? In all my books, the women manage to drift smoothly into flirtatious mode with the handsome heroes. I have a sinking feeling that if I tried to flirt I would make a fool out of myself.

Nevertheless, the next day, the thirteenth of October, makes a mark in my mind. I attempt to dress myself as nicely and attractively as I can. Modest clothing, but items I have always received compliments in. My light blue dress which has sleeves ending slightly below the elbow and which comes down to my knees. The neckline is square and I accessorise with a beautiful pearl necklace handed down by my grandmother. Stockings are a necessary evil and I wear some gorgeous low black heels on my feet. At least now I don't have to feel ashamed of my clothing when in his company.

'Esme?' my mother calls from downstairs. 'Doctor Cullen is here to remove your cast, darling.'

Carefully I get off the bed, making sure not to jar my leg. I examine myself in the full length mirror near my door. I do not look too bad. I wish my chestnut hair would behave itself a little more, but instead it seems intent on curling madly. There is nothing I can do about it now. Sighing to myself, but also red with excitement, I descend the stairs.

I follow the sound of voices to the drawing room, which is where I first met Doctor Cullen. Somewhere deep in my mind a little voice says, _Yes, and this is the last time you will see him_ but I manage to push that aside.

I step through the door, and there he is. As handsome and golden as I remember. He turns as he hears me enter and smiles at me. My breath catches a little in my throat.

'And here she is. Are you ready to get that cast off Miss Platt?' I glance down at what I now think of as the bane of my life and nod my head fervently. 'Excellent. If you'll just take a seat on the couch for me, we can begin.'

I have no memory of any conversation which might have occurred between my parents and Doctor Cullen as he removes my cast. All I can concentrate on are his golden eyes, narrowed with concentration, the way his blonde hair threatens to fall out of its carefully smoothed style and tumble over his porcelain forehead. Inappropriate thoughts, yes. Thoughts which would definitely earn me a beating from my father had he known them, yes. But thoughts which I cannot control nonetheless. Absently I notice that his hands and skin are just as cold as they were before. Perhaps he has poor circulation or something of the sort. They do not feel unpleasant as such... just a little... cold.

All too quickly for my liking he is finished with the cast, bundling it up and stowing it in a cloth bag, presumably to be disposed of later. I unwillingly tear my gaze away from his mesmerizing face and glance down to my leg. Compared with the other it looks pale and wasted... ugly really. I frown and my thoughts must be more evident to others than I think because Doctor Cullen speaks up, his voice soft and reassuring.

'It is only natural for the leg to appear different to the other when the cast is first taken off,' he says. 'The lack of sunlight and exercise make it a lot paler and thinner. Give it a few weeks and it will look as good as new.' I lift my eyes to his face again and see he is giving me a smile as radiant as the sun.

As we stare at each other, I notice an odd expression flit across his features... an expression I find hard to categorise. He looks almost as if he is in pain, and yet not so. There is something deep in his eyes which flickers and burns. I feel heat rising inside me as the air seems to thicken between us.

'So, another couple of weeks, Doctor, and she'll be able to work again?' My father, naturally, breaks whatever had been going on between us and Doctor Cullen gets smoothly to his feet, looking away from me.

'You are quite correct, Mr Platt,' he says courteously, although I am sure I detect a certain dislike flavouring his otherwise polite tone. 'Your daughter should be back to her usual self within a couple of weeks, although if there are any problems please do not hesitate to call me. I shall be here in Columbus for another month at least.'

I cannot help myself, the words burst from my lips without any sort of guidance from my brain.

'You are moving?' My mother whips her head around to glare sharply at me and my father coughs uncomfortably. Doctor Cullen does not look either shocked nor horrified at my breach of etiquette, but merely smiles at me. Almost sadly.

'I am. I plan on taking a tour of sorts, but I am probably going to head towards Chicago. I hear it's a fine city.'

'How interesting, Doctor,' my mother cooes from the corner of the room, moving over to take his arm. 'You must tell us all about where you plan to visit.' Leading him toward the door, she stops suddenly and addresses me.

'Esme, where are your manners? Say thank you to Doctor Cullen.'

Blushing with resentment at being treated like a child in front of this man I stare down at my lap and murmur my thanks.

He smiles from the doorway where he is still being pinioned by my mother. 'You are more than welcome, Miss Platt. I wish you a speedy recovery. I am sure you cannot wait to be outdoors once more.'

'Outdoors doing her chores, not damn foolish things like climbing trees,' my father huffs, and again Doctor Cullen looks at him with that slight dislike in his eyes.

'I'll show you out, Doctor,' my mother whispers girlishly and leads him from the room.

I spend the rest of the day hobbling around the house, trying to get used to using my injured leg again. When I am alone, which is seldom, I examine every inch of it minutely. Last time I saw it the bone was twisted at an odd angle. Now it is perfectly straight... nothing remains to be seen of the break. Doctor Cullen certainly did a good job on it.

I hardly expect a respite from my chores, and sure enough I do not receive one. By mid-afternoon my father is calling for my help in the fields near our house. My mother flutters down anxiously to the door.

'I do not think she should be outside, John... you know what Doctor Cullen said. She is supposed to rest the leg for a couple of weeks.' With a dry mouth I watch my father approach, his face red from the biting wind and anger. My mother flinches back as he slams a fist into the stonework near her head.

'It is nothing too hard, Helen. I am sure she will be able to cope.' The threat is thinly veiled. She'd _better_ be able to cope. My mother swallows.

'All I was thinking, John, is that Esme is sixteen now. She should be perhaps helping me in the house more... not working out in the fields. It is unseemly for a young lady and if she is ever to make a good marriage...' This is absolutely the right tack to take with my father. He pauses and his thunderous scowl relaxes slightly.

'Yes, Esme should stay in the house. Learn ladylike occupations.' He eyes me fiercely and I let my gaze fall to the floor. 'I do not want you running around the orchard or gardens like some common peasant child again, Esme. No fishing, no long walks in the woods and absolutely _no_ climbing trees. Do you understand?'

I hesitate. This means almost no time at all in the outdoors. My father notices my hesitation and grasps my chin in his rough hand, pinching at the skin. I wince and he forces my head upwards, making me look into his bloodshot blue eyes.

'Do you understand?' he repeats in a harsher tone of voice.

'Yes sir,' I whisper, struggling to form the words with my jaw clasped so tight. I can sense my mother fluttering anxiously next to us. His grip gradually relaxes and his hand drops.

'Good. I expect to hear from your mother that you are making good progress.' With one more scowl he is gone, stomping away over the grass, calling to Will as he goes.

I sink back against the wall, massaging the soft skin which is tender to the touch. My mother wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me back inside the house.

'It is best not to anger him, Esme. Besides, it is time you grew up. You have had far too much freedom... men want a woman who can keep house for them. You want to be married, don't you?'

I sigh. 'I suppose so.'

'And you never know... perhaps Doctor Cullen will start to court you.' My mother appears to drift off into a fantasy where her only daughter is courted by the town's prestigious and eminently suitable bachelor Doctor.

I cannot stop my blush but luckily I do not think my mother notices. 'I do not think that is likely, mother,' I say, once I am sure my voice is under control. 'He is moving. Did he not say he was going to take a tour of America and then head toward Chicago?' I phrase it as a question, as though I am not entirely sure that is what he said. Of course, I know every word.

'Oh yes, so he did.' Her disappointment is obvious. Then she brightens. 'Still, there are many fine men around town who are eligible. Howard Rivers is available, or so I hear. Or perhaps Emily and Frederick Evenson's son... I forget his name...'

'Charles,' I supply flatly.

'Oh yes, that's right. They are such a lovely family.' I roll my eyes slightly. I have nothing against Charles Evenson, really. His parents, Frederick and Emily, are friends with mother and father and so we have spent a little time together. He has always been polite and kind toward me, but I find him just a little bit dull. All he ever seems to want to talk about is banking and it bores me stupid. In addition to that, he has dark red hair and I believe I prefer blonde men.

**I hope you enjoyed it. I am aware that not much 'exciting' happened in this chapter but I don't want to rush things with this fiction so some of the chapters will be a lot more action-packed than others. As I said at least four more chapters are already written, but please do review and let me know what you think! xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Yay, Chapter Three! This is from Carlisle's perspective, so enjoy! And please don't forget to leave me a review if you enjoyed it.**

**Disclaimer: Twilight does not belong to me. At all.**

**Chapter Three**

24th November 1911

**Carlisle's POV**

The last boxes are finally packed and ready to be sent off to the house in Chicago. If I am honest with myself, which I try to be, it does pain me to leave Columbus. I always try not to form deep attachments to anyone as I always have to move on after a few years, yet it is difficult. There is always at least one person that I regret having to leave behind.

I have reached my limit for Columbus now. The townspeople believe I am thirty-five years old, and that is when I always make up a reason to move on. Any longer and they will really start to question why I do not look my age. Upon arrival in Chicago I can proclaim myself to be my true age... twenty-three. Of course I will have to make do with a very junior position at the hospital there, despite the fact that I am probably more qualified to be a doctor than all of them put together. Still, it is a small price to pay for my continued peaceful existence as a vampire living amongst humans.

Marcus, Caius and especially Aro believed I was joking when I announced my intention to explore the New World and work as a doctor there. They still didn't fully understand when I left, but then I always was a puzzle to them. Aro in particular spent a lot of time with me, trying to persuade me that the natural diet of a vampire, human blood, was better for me than my self-enforced _vegetarian_ diet. It naturally led to a few fairly bitter arguments between us, but we parted on good terms which I am thankful for. Despite our differences I enjoyed my time in Italy with the three Volturi leaders. It would have been disappointing for me had we parted in emnity.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'Doctor Cullen?'

Sarah Brown, my housekeeper and maid, appears at the door, smiling at me with that slightly sappy expression she always adopts around me. I turn to face her.

'You can come in Sarah.'

She edges into the room. 'Your final cases are stowed in the car, sir.' Her eyes are wide as she speaks of the motor I purchased a couple of months ago. It is a marvellous feat of engineering and no mistake. They are rare still, only a handful of people can afford one, but as a senior doctor it is not unreasonable for me to own one. Of course I will have to dump it before taking up my new life in Chicago. It is one thing to have a car when you are a respected senior doctor in a thriving hospital. It is quite another to own a car at twenty-three and just starting out in the medical profession. It is a shame, as I have grown quite attached to it.

If I did not have to worry about keeping my identity a secret I could have just run to Chicago. It would have been a lot quicker for a start. As it is my main belongings have been sent on by train and it was a choice between a car or a cart. I opted for the former as I am sure the latter would have been a lot slower.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Soon enough I am puttering through the streets of Columbus. The car coughs and splutters as I guide it carefully down the roads. I wish it did not have to be so loud. The unusual sound and sight of it is drawing people out from their shops and houses to gawp. Maybe running _would_ have been less noticeable. It would have been quieter for a start and if I was really going for it, they wouldn't even see me pass.

The route I have chosen out of Columbus passes by the Platt homestead which stands off to the left. I try and keep my eyes straight ahead, concentrating on the road. I have to fight the urge to glance at the windows.

I received a very sweet note from Esme Platt just a few weeks ago. She thanked me very politely and properly for healing her leg, yet under the conventional lines and language I sensed a desperate longing that I know all too well. It is sometimes a curse that part of my nature means I am so incredibly attractive to human women. Miss Platt's obvious infatuation with me is nothing new. What is new is that I do not find it so irksome as I should do. I know I will always remember the first time I saw her, lying dishevelled and grubby on the couch in her drawing room. She struck me as a singularly unusual girl as soon as I started talking to her. Despite the pain she must have been in, and her natural reaction to my appearance, she was somehow... different. It is wrong of me to feel as I do, I know it. She is only sixteen and in a lot of ways a lot more immature than other girls of her age. I have seen them about the town, flirting coquettishly in the bakers' with the handsome young baker's lad. Their mothers often smile and turn a blind eye to their activities. But Esme Platt, she seems to have little to no interest in men. There was no excited talk of suitors between her and her mother. Many girls her age would not be seen dead climbing a tree or running around outside. My mind flits back, recalling with perfect clarity her tumbling chestnut curls, her flushed cheeks, those piercing hazel eyes flecked with green. Her passion and joy for life excited and intrigued me. I have spent so many years on this earth that sometimes it takes someone like Miss Platt to remind me of the simple pleasures I used to enjoy. There were many times in my youth when I climbed trees with my best friend, Thomas.

Yet I know I have to suppress and ignore these feelings. Esme Platt has stirred me in a way that no female has managed to do for countless ages. I cannot forget her age... she is too young, I cannot act selfishly. I would like nothing more than to court her, as if I truly was merely the town doctor seeing a girl he likes and admires. But she can never be exposed to my world. Ever. And so although it causes me great pain, I have to leave. This is what I mean when I say it is hard not to form attachments.

Besides, I cannot help but be worried for her. I do not like her father for a start. I have seen him often about town when he sells his crop and he is bullish and threatening to others. I have no doubts about how he treats his wife and daughter when nobody else is around.

I cannot help myself. My eyes dart to the left. There is a face in a lower window, a pale face framed with brown curly hair. Her expression looks slightly sad. I tear my gaze away just as her eyes widen... when she recognizes me. I carry on driving down the road, leaving the Platt homestead behind, and try to ignore how this feels like a betrayal. Young Miss Platt will be fine. I am sure she can take care of herself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

8th December 1911

The city is gearing up for Christmas already. I have been here for almost two weeks and I am still amazed at Chicago's size and bustle. It is so easy to be anonymous here. In Columbus almost everybody knew who I was. This was partly to do with the fact that due to my position in the hospital I held quite a prominent place in society, but also because the town is so small compared with here.

The hospital is so much larger for a start. Thanks to my vampiric memory I was easily able to learn my way around, but I am sure it is not so easy for many new starters. In fact I purposefully got lost a few times, just to make sure not to arouse suspicion.

In some ways I miss my old quieter life in Ohio. And here I have to travel a lot further to hunt unobtrusively. Yet I do enjoy living in Chicago. It is different, yes, but not altogether unpleasant.

I wander into my living room, still piled with boxes that I will get around to unpacking sooner or later. It isn't any trouble, not with my abilities. The whole thing will probably be done in less than ten minutes. To be honest, though, I do not need much. It is only for display, should anyone ever come visiting, which will be rare as I do not keep much company. I have no need of a kitchen, bathroom or bedroom. The only things I am anxious to get set up are my bookshelves and my study area. Medicine is evolving all the time and I spend every spare second I get reading my new journals. It is times like these that I am thankful to be a vampire. Imagine an eternity to absolutely perfect your chosen passion. I am in a position to be able to watch countless ages of medicine grow around me and as long as I am careful and do not attract attention I am free to live my long life however I choose.

An errant thought strikes me and I blink. It has been there for a long time, lurking in the back of my mind, never really addressed. Loneliness. It is incredibly lonely to be on my own like this with only my medical books for company. Many others of my kind I know tend to live in covens, usually of three or four. Although they do not follow my particular diet they travel in a nomadic fashion, always with each other. I can get close to nobody. No-one can really know me, because to know me means certain death. For many years I believed that my studies and becoming a doctor would be enough.

Almost without meaning to, I slump onto the nearest box and fall right through, smashing a few meaningless ornaments on my way. I sit amongst the wreckage and think deeply. It is true. I am lonely, so lonely. I began this cursed existence in sixteen-sixty-six. It is now nineteen-eleven. Almost two-hundred-and-fifty years have passed and the closest company I have kept has been that of the Volturi in Italy.

How would it feel, I wonder. To be a part of a family, or a coven? To know that there would always be somebody to talk to and share problems with? I cannot imagine it. My dim human memories do not serve to help. What I can gather from them is that I never really had much of a family to begin with. My mother died when I was very small, perhaps two or three. My father withdrew into himself, spending little to no time with me. I was left in the care of nannies. My father could barely stand to even look at me sometimes, and I realize now that it was because I reminded him so much of my mother. He talked to me about her sometimes. Usually after he'd had a few glasses of strong altar wine. She had my soft blonde hair, falling in curls around her face. Piercing blue eyes, the same as mine when I was human. To hear him speak, you would have thought we were twins. Virtually identical only I was male and her female. Then the alcohol would make him angry and that is when the beatings would start. I remember often thinking that he was taking out his anger at my mother dying and leaving him on me.

Absently I pick up a shard of one of the smashed ornaments and twirl it between my pale fingers. I do try not to indulge in self-pity too much. It serves no purpose and seems weak somehow.

I sigh and get to my feet. I need to organize this house. It is on the outskirts of Chicago, close to the countryside for hunting. The hospital is in the bustling centre, however it only takes me about ten minutes to run it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I stand back and survey my handiwork. The shelves are up and the desk is set in its usual position in a corner of the room. I have tried to make the study homely with a few pictures hung on the walls and a couple of oil lamps scattered here and there, although I do not really need light.

I frown and wrinkle my nose in a thoughtful expression as I look at the room. It is no good. I simply cannot decorate, it is a simple truth. The pictures look a little out of place and I am sure the oil lamps are in the wrong positions. The only thing I am happy about is how full my bookshelves are.

The rest of the house is still virtually bare. I have tried to furnish the hallway properly so that in case any visiting merchant catches a glimpse inside he will not see anything amiss. Other than that the rest of the rooms are empty. In one I have set a chaise, for no apparent purpose. In another, which I suppose might usually have been a dining room, I have placed a table and chairs in the centre. I honestly do not know why. I guess I just could not stand the thought of having so many rooms in this house bare. Reminding me of my loneliness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

3rd May 1914

The news is worrying. In the papers, in the streets, it is all anyone talks about. _War_. The word is whispered in hushed tones, as if pronouncing it loudly will make it real. It has been building for awhile, and there is the definite impression that everyone is just waiting for the trigger to happen.

I try to continue on as usual, working my shifts at the hospital, and spending my free time hunting or studying. Trying to ignore the empty ache in the centre of my chest.

Glancing at the clock in my study I realize it is about time for me to leave for my next shift. It is a long one, from two in the afternoon to seven o'clock tomorrorow morning. Anxiously I check on the weather outside again, just in case it has turned sunny and I have to send an urgent message that I am sick and cannot work. Luckily the clouds have continued to hold and I start preparing my briefcase. They have begun to give me more responsibility and I have already been promoted twice. This is not unusual and I knew that it would happen sooner or later.

The streets are busy with people as I approach the centre of town and slow down to a normal human walking pace. There are the usual double-takes from women as they catch sight of me. I manage to ignore them.

The waiting-room is full, as normal, as I walk in. I head to the staff area and clock in with my card. I have no doubt that the shift will be a busy one. As well as all the usual day to day business, there is also the fact that we have had several young men come in recently for health check-ups. With the threat of war looming, the young males of the Chicago want to make sure that they are healthy in case of a call-up.

A young nurse enters the staff room as I am about to leave. She is new, I haven't seen her before. She catches sight of me and has to stifle a gasp. I resist the urge to roll my eyes which I know would not be polite, nor friendly.

'How do you do, miss? I am Doctor Cullen,' I say cordially, extending my hand, thankful that I have already put on my surgical gloves. She does not need to feel my ice-cold skin unless she has to.

'_No, it's fine. I mean they are cold, but I...'_

I wince as the unbidden memory rises in my mind, and I shake my head slightly, as if to chase the thought away. The nurse blushes and reaches for my hand.

'Miss Lomax... I'm new here.' She flushes deeply again and lets go of my hand. I smile gently at her. Although the near constant attention can get irritating, I know they cannot help it, and I try to be as kind as I can.

'Well welcome, Miss Lomax. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.' I look at the large clock in the corner of the staff area. 'If you will excuse me, I have to start my shift. Good luck.'

'T-thank you, Doctor Cullen. It is a pleasure to meet you too...' She trails off, unsure of what to say. She twirls a strand of dark hair around her finger, looking uncertain of where she is supposed to go next. I take pity on her, it must be so bewildering to start new in somewhere as large as this hospital.

'Just wait there a second, Miss Lomax. I'll check the chart and find out where you are supposed to be. I have a few minutes before my shift begins. If you wish, I can escort you to whoever you are shadowing today.'

A beaming smile lights her face and her bright brown eyes.

'That would be so kind of you, Doctor Cullen.' I wince inside at the look she is giving me, but move over to the charts and flick through one of them swiftly.

'Ah, you're following Nurse Collins. She's a lovely woman, I'm sure you will get along absolutely splendidly with her.' I incline my head, inviting her to follow, and leave the staff area. I just hope, for her sake, that this Miss Lomax will not develop an infatuation with me that can never be requited.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'Doctor Cullen!'

Oh no. I recognize the voice. Doctor Joshua Ford has been attempting to make friends with me almost since I started at this hospital. No matter how many times I have rejected his offers, he does not seem to get the hint.

'Hey, Carlisle! Hold on a second!' It is now impossible to pretend I have not heard him. I stop and take a deep, unnecessary breath. Joshua catches up to me, his dark face at once fearful and excited.

'Have you heard the latest news?'

I sigh wearily. 'I am afraid I have not, Joshua. What is the latest news?'

'They're saying that war is going to break this year. What with all the troubles with Russia and Germany... they're saying that the Kaiser is losing his grip on the situation.'

'They have been saying that for quite awhile,' I say, wondering how I am going to get out of this conversation.

Joshua's face is eager and friendly. 'Oh, I know, I know they have. But this time it might actually happen. There is so much tension about territory... you know things have been brewing between Germany and England for a long time now. It seems it might be all coming to a head.'

'But Britain will not risk open warfare against Germany and Russia,' I say, trying not to scoff at him. 'Nobody wants war.'

'All it takes is the slightest incident,' he warns ominously. 'But I go off track. I did not mean to bend your ear about the news. What I really wanted to say was that a few of us are heading out for a couple of post-shift drinks. Why don't you come with us?'

I shake my head, all ready to start voicing my polite decline, but Joshua leaps in ahead of me, evidently knowing what I am about to say.

'Carlisle. Listen to me. I have worked with you for... what is it now? About two or three years?' Reluctantly I nod, conceding that he is right. 'You have not come out with us once. Not once. Come on, live a little. Your studies cannot be that important.'

I do not know what made me say yes. Perhaps it was his earnest and friendly face. Perhaps it was because I knew I had nothing better to do that night apart from read. Perhaps it was because I was most definitely lonely. Whatever it was, I found myself agreeing. Joshua's face lights up with delight.

'Wonderful! We shall meet outside the hospital in about...' he glances at the clock, '... fifteen minutes.'

I try and force a smile. 'That sounds perfect.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The time at the bar is about as bad as I had imagined. I can drink human liquid if I wish, but it is deeply unpleasant to me. I settle for taking a tiny sip every so often. Occasionally I risk using my speed to tip a little into a plant standing handily just to my left. They never notice the movement, and it does look as if I am drinking more than I am.

The talk is all gossip about the hospital to start with, but it soon turns to the war. It seems that many of my co-workers share Joshua's opinions about the political situation.

'I swear it's all that Kaiser Wilhelm...' one rants, spilling his ale over the table as he gesticulates wildly.

'No, it's going to be the problems with Austria and Serbia... I bet you anything,' another man protests. It is someone I do not recognize.

'Oh, you are full of trash Simon,' Joshua scoffs. I pretend to sip at my beer and keep quiet. Although I am deeply uncomfortable in this sort of situation, there is a part of me that revels in the human contact and keeps me from making my excuses and leaving.

'Believe me, it will be Serbia that starts it,' the man called Simon insists, taking a deep pull at his drink. He stares into his glass almost thoughtfully. 'I hope it does not come to war.'

Joshua throws back his head and laughs. 'Let me guess... because of the lovely Ellen, correct?' From the way Simon blushes it is fair to say that Joshua has hit the nail on the head. Simon blushes a little.

'Well, I have been courting her for a few weeks now, and she is so lovely...' The men around the table laugh and slap him on the back. Joshua raises his glass in Simon's direction.

'Well, I will say this for you. You have good taste, she is definitely a stunner.' Simon smiles goofily.

The talk moves on from war to sweethearts and it seems almost every man around the table has some woman he is either courting or has his eye on, he would be sad to leave behind should the worst come to the worst.

'What about you, Carlisle?' Simon finally asks, glancing across the table at me. 'Do you have anybody special?'

This was the point where I should have smoothly directed the question to somebody else or started a new topic. However, because I was feeling so loose and free, talking with other people, I found myself telling the truth.

'There was one girl...' I start off, staring intently into the swirling dark depths of the beer in my glass. There is a raucous cry from the men surrounding me.

'Of course there is, Carlisle!' Joshua cries. 'I knew there was more to you than you were letting on!' I almost laugh at his words, wondering how he would react if he knew exactly how much more there was to me.

'So go on,' goads Simon. 'What is her name? Is she pretty?'

'Her name is Esme... she lives back in Columbus,' I explain. They look confused.

'So, does she visit you or something?' asks Simon in a bewildered tone of voice. I shake my head.

'I left Columbus to come here about two and a half years ago. Esme was only sixteen when I left... I just didn't think it would work out between us.'

'But you're... you're twenty-six, yes?' Joshua asks. I nod. 'But then, you would only have been about twenty-three when you left Columbus. Sixteen is a good marriageable age for a girl. Why on earth did you not stay and court her if you liked her so much?'

There is clearly no way I can tell them the truth, so I try and find a logical explanation to satisfy their curiosity. Soon I come upon one.

'Her father refused to give his permission. She had a lot of interest from men who held very senior positions in society. I was not good enough for her.' There is a definite sense of empathy coming from the men around the table. This is something they are familiar with.

'That is hard,' murmurs someone. 'I know what it feels like. I don't blame you for moving.'

'Tell us,' Joshua insists. 'What does she look like then?'

This is all part of the normal manly talk, I know that well. Yet I cannot stop myself from falling into the trap, cannot stop myself from talking about the face that still haunts many of my thoughts.

'She is truly beautiful,' I say honestly. 'Dark brown hair and hazel eyes with hints of green.'

'Curly hair or straight?' asks Simon. I pause at the slightly odd question, but answer him nevertheless.

'Curly, perfect ringlets almost. Completely natural, as far as I could tell. I was over at the house a couple of times and could not keep my eyes off her.'

'My Anne is like that,' Joshua says wistfully. 'The first time I saw her, that was it.'

'Anne?' Simon asks. 'You mean the girl who comes into the hospital sometimes asking after you? Blonde hair?'

'She does have fair hair, yes. A similar shade to yours, Carlisle,' Joshua announces. 'I have been courting her for almost a month now, but I believe her mother dislikes me.'

I smile at him, swiftly emptying my glass into the plant next to me. 'Give it another few months, Joshua. I am sure that her parents will warm to you once you receive your next promotion. A doctor is a prestigious profession after all.'

Joshua raises his glass to me. 'You are correct, my friend.' He drinks deeply. I sigh and start fishing around for my bag.

'I have to go, I am afraid. It was good to spend time with you all.'

Amidst a chorus of goodbyes I leave the inn and once I am out of sight of anybody I speed all the way home. The house seems emptier than usual when I enter, and I realize the night has probably done me some good. Just to spend an evening talking with normal human beings and their little problems.

The bad news is that I cannot stop thinking of Esme until my attention is distracted by my next shift.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: So so sorry about the delay... I moved house recently and everything has been a bit crazy. Absolutely no time for writing. For those who may be reading 'Battle of the Angels', the same applies to that story. I hope to have the next chapter of that uploaded by tonight. Anyway, enjoy, although things are getting a little darker as of now and will get progressively worse... poor Esme.**

**Warnings: Violence of sorts**

**Disclaimer: Twilight does not belong to me. Repeat... DOES NOT. Thank you.**

**Chapter Four**

18th February 1917

**Esme's POV**

I sit in my bedroom, staring idly out of the window. Just in the distance I can see that tree I fell out of six years ago. _Six years!_ It seems almost no time at all since Doctor Cullen was here in the house, treating me for my broken leg.

I still remember that day, far back at the end of nineteen-eleven when I saw him drive past in his car, on his way out of Columbus forever. I am sure there was a moment when he turned his head and looked at me... but perhaps that is just my fanciful imagination.

A lot has happened since that day, when I was sixteen and had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I am sure I know now. I have always had a soft spot for small children... for any children, really. I often babysit for the couple who live near to us, about a mile away. When I was in my teen years they had three small children and I used to go over about once a fortnight to look after them. I flatter myself that children like me.

I do not want to get married. I know it sounds ridiculous. Why wouldn't I want to get married? It is every girl's dream. To have the beautiful dress and the handsome groom. But no. I believe that to be married you have to have passion. And the only passion I have ever felt for any man is virtual hatred for my father and an unrealistic love for a certain doctor who left Columbus about six years ago. I wish to be a teacher. A teacher of small children, preferably. I am competent in all the maidenly pursuits, thanks to my mother. I know how to play the piano in a basic manner. I can sew, draw and cook. I have a smattering of English Literature knowledge and a fairly solid comprehension of sums and math. My French is not so good, even though mother employed a Monsieur Pierrot to come and tutor me for one afternoon a week when I was fifteen, but it is comprehensible. I believe I would make a good teacher and I have my heart set on it.

Why, not every woman has to be married. My Aunt Lynne has lived as an old maid all her life and she is nearly fifty now. Yet I hear my father talk about her with a sneering air and I know he is not the only one. Whether I like it or not, an unmarried woman past the age of twenty-five is odd in this society. It may be petty of me, but I do not wish to be talked about like they talk about my Aunt Lynne. Even my mother is almost unbearably cruel about her when she believes I am not listening.

Still, they are my parents, and I know they love me. I hope that they will accept my decision. I am twenty-one and will turn twenty-two at the end of this year. December the fourth to be exact. I want to move West and possibly start up my own school. That is my dream.

My mother is busy in the drawing room, attempting to mend the drapes that have been fraying for months now.

'Mother?' I ask, tentatively. She looks up and smiles at me.

'Just hold on a minute, darling. Come and sit by me.' She pats the cushion next to her and I perch myself there, almost rigid with nerves, my heart beating hard in my chest. Soon enough she puts aside her needle and thread and turns to face me. This is it.

'What is it, Esme?'

I anxiously fiddle with one of my curls which has fallen from where I swept my hair back this morning.

'I wished to talk to you about... about my future.' My mother beams at me, genuine joy lighting her otherwise tired features.

'Oh! You've met a young man in town? Is he suitable? Is he going to court you? Oh, Esme, this is so exciting!'

Wincing, I try and stop her tirade.

'No, no, mother. I have not met anyone. I wanted to talk to you about something different.'

My mother frowns. 'Different?'

'Yes. I... I want to teach. In schools, probably small children. I have been looking at advertisements in the papers. There is a position open just West of here...'

I freeze at the look on my mother's face. Her lips have drawn into a thin line and her eyebrows have pulled together. I know this look and my courage shrivels inside me. Sure enough, her tone is as cold as ice.

'Esme Anne Platt. You are _not_ going to head off into the West to become a school teacher. You are going to stay in Columbus and you are going to marry one of the _many_ eligible men in this town. That is your duty. Do you understand me, or do I have to call your father?'

Oh, there are so many things I wish to say at this moment! I look at my mother's once beautiful, now tired, face and wish to tell her that I do not want to end up like her. I yearn to say, _Yes, call for father all you wish, you will not change my decision_. I wish I had courage. Instead I shake my head dumbly, feeling the tears start to prick at my eyes. But I shall not weep. I have at least enough strength for that.

'Good,' my mother announces, after scrutinizing me closely for a few seconds longer. 'Then we shall say no more about that sort of foolishness. Shall we?'

'No mother,' I murmur quietly, my gaze still cast down submissively at the carpet. There is silence for a few moments longer and then I feel my mother's weight shift as she moves closer to me. Her hand clasps mine which is lying in my lap.

'Please understand me, darling,' she says, and her tone is so unusual for her that I raise my eyes to meet hers. 'I do not forbid this just to hurt you. Believe it or not, I know what it is like to have unrealistic dreams. But that is all they are. Dreams. They cannot come true. All I want is for you to be happy and I know that marrying and acquiring a good standing in society and surrounded by children is what you need.' She pauses and raises a hand to stroke my curls affectionately. 'You have brought me so much joy darling. I do not want you to miss out.'

The tears still feel like they are going to fall, but this time it would be for a very different reason. It is rare indeed that my mother opens up to me this way. So often she is corseted by the etiquette of society or my father. I decide, on a whim, to take advantage of her unusual frankness.

'Did you want to marry father?' I ask her bluntly, my eyes searching her face.

'No,' she responds after a long pause and a quick glance around to make sure that we are entirely alone and no servant is hovering who could report back to her husband. 'I did not. I did have my eye on another young man but unfortunately my feelings were unrequited and he got married to his sweetheart. They were a golden couple and I was left on the sidelines.' There can be no mistaking the truth and sadness in my mother's features and I am astonished that I never knew any of this before. She clutches my hand tighter. 'I do not want that for you. I do not want you to be left on the sidelines. Esme... you are twenty-one-years-old. If you do not get married soon then you will be left like your Aunt Lynne. Alone and mocked by society. I could not bear that.'

'I understand,' I whisper, and I do. I have always known that my mother wants the best for me, or what she believes is the best. And she is probably right. After all, she has many years of experience and must know the ways of the world. Perhaps getting married will bring me happiness. I will never have my doctor, my ideal husband, but maybe I can have second best. And even if I am not happy... my mother will be.

My mind is made up. I shall marry and be happy about it. Even if it kills me.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

December 17th 1917

So, this is being married. Strange... I had imagined it to be different. I thought I would _feel_ different, perhaps older and more mature. But I feel the same as I did this morning when I was still Esme Anne Platt. Now I am Mrs Esme Evenson but it seems like nothing has changed.

My mother cried during the ceremony. I expected that. My father sat, gruff and dry-eyed throughout the whole service. I expected that too.

I had thought that Charles my husband, _Oh Gosh my husband_, would have said something like _You look beautiful_ as I stood at the altar with him. But he said nothing, even though my wedding dress was the height of fashion, created in the new short style. Mother and I had designed it ourselves and she had spent a lot of money on the material and the pattern. I believed I looked nice, and Cynthia Briar, my bridesmaid and closest friend had told me so. But from Charles... not a word.

And now we are here, at the little house near the centre of Columbus that is to be our married home. No honeymoon for us, for Charles is keen to return to work. He opens the door and walks in, hanging his hat and coat up on the hook just inside the hallway. I pause for half a second, hoping against hope that he will sweep me up in his arms and carry me over the threshold. That is what they always do in my books, and then the new bride giggles and they share a passionate and loving kiss.

Charles turns to me, smoothing a hand over his hair, frowning. 'What are you hovering out there for Esme? Come on, you are letting the cold air in the house.' His words are not especially sharp but they make me flinch a little nonetheless. He sounds so – _bored._ Like we are not venturing out into a new life together as husband and wife. Still, perhaps I am expecting too much. And he was certainly romantic enough during our courtship, in the latter few months of nineteen-seventeen. He proposed on my birthday... my twenty-second. I remember he produced a slightly wilted bunch of red roses and clasped my hand. He then proceeded to make a speech about _profitable unions_ and I have to confess I did drift off a little. Still, my mother assures me that it was _most_ romantic, so I suppose it must have been.

Coming abruptly back to the present, I move over the threshold on my own two feet, clutching my handbag to me tightly. As soon as I clear the door Charles sighs almost irritably and quickly shuts it behind me.

'I suppose you shall be wanting to straighten things up,' Charles says gruffly.

I am at a bit of a loss. Do I? I suppose so, that's probably what newly married women do, isn't it?

'Have all the trunks and suitcases been arranged then, darling?'

'Yes. As far as I know they have been stored in the drawing room and upstairs in the master bedroom. You should probably get started with it, otherwise it will not get done before tonight and I want to sleep in a properly set-up bedroom.' He turns to face me and there is a strange, greedy expression on his face that I have not seen there before. I feel a slight shudder run up my spine and a squirmy, queasy feeling settle in my stomach. Of course. The wedding night. My mother did try to prepare me as much as possible for it and she brought me a pamphlet on the subject putting me under strict instructions not to let my father see it.

It all sounds a little intimidating if I am honest but I was assured by my mother that it is quite pleasant once you get used to it. Feeling my face flush with a sudden heat I lower my gaze to the slightly threadbare carpet.

'Of course, darling.'

He has lost interest and is already turning to head towards his new study.

'You can fetch me a stiff drink. I shall be at my desk, there is some important work to be done.'

'A drink already, darling? But it is only three o'clock in the afternoon.'

He stops, halfway down the hall, and I see his muscles tense around his shoulders and back. Very slowly he turns around.

'I said get me a drink Esme.' His voice is heavy, dull and slightly threatening. I recognize it from twenty-two years of living with my father.

'Of course, Charles.' I hurry into the kitchen and get a crystal tumbler out of one of the cabinets. Most of the essentials have already been put away by our newly hired housekeeper, Myrtle, although some of the personal items have been left for me to deal with. The ice chinks against the side of the glass as I pour his drink and I knock gently at the door of the study before hearing him say I can enter. I have already decided that I do not wish to anger him. Besides, he may just be in a bad mood. I know he is essentially a gentle man, if a little boring. Why, everybody in town believes him to be very respectable and they cannot all be wrong, can they?

'Here you go, darling,' I say softly, putting the glass down on a mat next to him. He is scrawling away at his paper, doing what look like to me, incomprehensible sums. He pauses for a moment and looks up at me. His face creases into one of the first smiles I have seen from him all day.

'Thank you, Esme.' I feel a warmth flood me at his words and almost skip back out of the study. I knew he had just been stressed, and were we not all allowed to get a little tense and irritable from time to time?

**Seven Hours Later**

Ten o'clock in the evening. I have spent the time since arriving sorting out our few personal belongings and arranging them in the various rooms. In doing this I have discovered another passion of mine. Arranging houses and decorating them brings me a peace and joy which I used to acquire from climbing trees, gardening and sketching.

I am proud of what I have achieved with my first house of my very own. I assume that once Charles and I begin to have children we might move somewhere a little larger because there is not much room for babies here. As it is, I believe I have made this house cosy and homely... a refuge for Charles to return to when he has had a bad or stressful day at the bank. I can hear him now, his heavy tread ascending the stairs.

I am sitting at my dressing table in our master bedroom. There is a smaller one just off the upstairs landing and to the right which I have designated our guest room.

Myrtle went home two hours ago after clearing up our late dinner and Charles has been in his study since then, working nonstop. I glance quickly around our room, making sure that everything looks to be in its place, and then continue pulling a brush through my curls. Those butterflies are back and fluttering more madly than ever. I view my reflection in the mirror. I do not look too bad. My mother helped me to pick out some nightgowns which are alluring and yet proper at the same time. She told me that Charles would not want his wife to look like one of those 'fast' girls, but that there was no harm in a sophisticated yet tempting nightgown.

'_After all, dear,'_ she had said to me. _'You are young enough to get away with it_.' My figure is not bad at all, that much I will allow. I am perhaps not quite as thin as some of the girls in town, yet I am slender. Years of healthy exercise and walks in the garden have done that for me at least, even if they did not make me into a lady.

I see my hazel eyes widen in minor panic as Charles thuds along the landing and then the door creaks open.

'Hello, darling,' I say, turning on my stool to look at him. 'How did your work go? Did you get all of it done?'

'Most of it,' he grunts, abruptly starting to disrobe. I stare at him, finding it impossible to pull my gaze away, and yet longing to nonetheless. I am sure there is supposed to be something before we actually... you know. Some sort of passionate and yet loving build-up. But perhaps that is fiction, just as the threshold idea apparently is.

He is down to his undershorts now, leaving the rest of his clothes in a heap on the floor. With a sigh he pulls back the covers on the bed and gets in. Only then does he meet my eyes.

'Come on then. Please do not hang around there forever.'

I blink, panic starting to beat wildly in my chest. I do not know what to do. I do not know how to behave! I would have thought that we could have explored this together...

Tentatively I move over to the bed and delicately slide in beside him. Instantly his hands are on me, grabbing at handfuls of my nightgown and pulling it up and over my head. I do not stop him, why would I, he is my _husband_, and yet I feel somehow ashamed. Nobody has ever seen me like this before. I have never felt so exposed in front of somebody else.

This is apparently a problem he does not have. Perhaps it is different for men. He throws my gown aside and then shuffles out of his undershorts. Panting now, he latches his mouth onto mine and this is very different from the dry and chaste kiss he gave me at the altar. His tongue is sliding over my lips and I am reminded of a slug. It takes everything I have not to pull away.

I feel his, excitement, poking at the outside of my bare thigh and panic surges again. Charles appears not to notice. With a few more grunts and muffled words which I cannot make out, he shuffles in the bed so that he is lying on top of me. I manage to twist my head away from his insistent kisses for a moment.

'Be gentle. Please,' I whisper. He does not respond and a few seconds later I feel an incredibly sharp and searing pain. If he sees my agonized expression or hears my slight cry, he does not mention it, nor does he slow down. Gradually the pain fades as he thrusts, yet my tears carry on continuously... long after he has rolled off me and fallen asleep.

**Okay, so next update will be tomorrow. I have a few more chapters written so updates will be quite regular. Hope you enjoyed and as always if you did, please review. If you write on here you'll know how much a review means to an author! xxxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: So this is it. Chapter Five. Things will get more and more violent and angsty from here on in, so be warned. If anyone thinks I should up the rating to 'M' please let me know, but for now it will remain a 'T'. This is from Esme's POV again but don't worry, we shall be hearing from our favourite doctor soon, after all June of 1918 is fast approaching!**

**Warnings: As mentioned above, quite a bit of violence. **

**Disclaimer: No-one ever reads these, **_**ever**_**, but hey ho. I don't wanna get sued. So... Twilight does not belong to me.**

**Chapter Five**

**March 11****th**** 1918**

'So how is married life treating you, Esme? You look well.' I pick up my teacup and delicately blow across the surface of the liquid, attempting to cool it down before I sip. My friend Sally looks genuinely interested as she picks at her buttered bun. She got married at eighteen to Harry Scholes, her sweetheart since she was sixteeen. Sometimes I do not really understand why I am such good friends with Sally. Best friends, really. She towers over me with a gorgeous figure I could only ever dream of achieving. She seems to be styling herself nowadays on all the models in the fashion magazines and she truly looks like she could appear in their pages herself. If I ever tried to wear what she has on now I would never be able to carry it off.

Her slim figure is encased in a beige tailored suit which is elegantly belted high on her waist. She is an admirer of the Coco Chanel fashions which are just making their way in America now and if I am not mistaken, her quilted handbag is one of the recent Chanel models from Paris. It is a good thing that Harry makes such a good living as a solicitor or I am sure she would never be able to afford such sophisticated clothing. I pull slightly self-consciously at my old light green dress with the floating sleeves and look at my worn leather handbag.

Sally is eyeing me from across the table as I sit in gloomy contemplation of her impeccable style. Reaching into her bag she draws out a glossy silver cigarette case and lights one, drawing the smoke smoothly into her lungs and exhaling.

'Would you like one darling?' she asks kindly, pushing the case across the cafe table to me. I shake my head and nudge it back toward her.

'Charles frowns on smoking,' I say. 'But I love the case. It is so stylish.'

'Harry bought it for me just the other day. He is such a sweetheart. And what on earth do you mean, Charles disapproves of smoking? He has at least ten every day doesn't he?'

I blush. 'Well, yes I believe so but... he disapproves of me smoking. To be honest with you, I have never tried it.'

Sally looks quite frankly horrified. 'Never tried it! Esme – you simply must. Even if you do not like it, you can at least say you tried.'

'Sally!' I exclaim, pretending to be horrified at her suggestion, but really quite interested. I know Charles hates the idea of me smoking, he mentioned it a lot during our courtship, but I am my own person after all. The voice in the back of my mind which is shouting at me that it would be a _very_ bad idea to make Charles angry gets fainter and fainter as I war with myself over whether I should obey my husband as I vowed, or indulge myself in something which has undoubtedly intrigued me since my early teens. Sally seems to see my trouble and leans across the table, clasping my hand with her free one and tapping her ash into the tray.

'My doctor, darling, says it is _so_ good for the nerves. And it is certainly relaxing if you have had a tough day.'

Doctor. Just that one word brings back all the memories. That last, long treasured glimpse, of blonde hair and golden eyes, staring at me from behind the wheel of his motor car as he travelled out of my life forever. Would _he_ have approved? If what Sally is saying is true and her physician indeed told her that it would help her nerves... I cannot deny that living with Charles these past few months has been something of a strain for me, God forgive. Making my mind up I hold out my hand for it.

'Go on then,' I murmur, feeling quite daring and enjoying the sensation of doing something that Charles wouldn't approve of for once.

'Good girl,' Sally smiles and places the cigarette between my fingers.

I am aware that my hand is shaking slightly as I raise it to my lips. Sally watches me closely.

'Now just draw a little into your mouth and _inhale_. It may make you cough at first, but it is marvellous once you are used to it.'

Sure enough, I _do _cough. I splutter all over the place and Sally hurriedly passes me her napkin. Once I have recovered she holds her hand out for it again, but I ignore her, really feeling brave now. Tentatively I take another small drag and inhale again. This time I do not cough quite as much.

Sally beams at me. 'Would you like one darling?' She winks. 'One of your very own?' Unable to help myself I start laughing. This is the thing with Sally. She is what Charles calls a 'bad influence' and certainly what my mother would term a 'fast girl' – but she seems to have so much fun and I always have fun when I am with her.

'Well, just one. That has to be it though, Sal. Honestly.'

'Fine, that's fine.' She selects another cigarette from her case and hands it to me. Once I have placed it between my lips she opens her box of matches again.

'Now... hold the end in the flame and draw in your breath. That will light it for you.' I do as she says and shakily inhale again. She is right... it _is_ actually quite relaxing. Already the troubles I have started to experience with Charles are fading away from my mind. Or perhaps not fading but certainly becoming of less importance.

Once we are settled once more she picks up where she left off the conversation. 'So tell me. How is married life?' Once more she fixes me with _that_ stare. The stare that says she is not going to let me off and I shouldn't even _think_ of lying to her. As if I would. She would see through me instantly, and not just because she is my best friend. I cannot lie to anyone... I blush too much.

I lean forward, confidentially. 'Well... it isn't _quite_ what I was expecting to be honest, Sal. Charles works such long hours at the bank, and when he's home... Well. He's there, but he's not, if you understand what I mean?'

Sally taps her ash into the tray again and leans back in her chair. 'You mean you don't see a lot of him? Does he not come and ask how your day has been?'

'Not really. He closets himself away in his study and rarely comes out until dinner.'

'Well, surely you talk to him then?'

'I try. But he either ignores me or gets irritable. I don't think he likes me asking questions about his work. So then I tried asking him about how he would like the house to be decorated but he wasn't interested in that, either.'

Sally inhales and blows a plume of smoke into the air reflectively as she thinks about this. 'To be honest darling, he sounds like a typical man. Harry would probably fall asleep if I tried to talk to him about decorating or fashion, bless his heart.'

'But he makes _no_ effort to talk to me, Sally. I often feel that what I think is of no importance to him. That cannot be right, surely?'

'No. Harry does at least talk to me about my day and what I have been up to.' As if suddenly thinking of something she leans forward again. 'How are, marital relations between you?' she whispers.

I feel myself blush furiously. 'Sally! Honestly! That is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation!'

'Oh relax, Esme. I am your best friend. If you cannot talk to me about that sort of thing... who can you talk to? Apart from your mother, and I am guessing you do not want to talk to her about it.' No. I would not want to talk to my mother about relations in that sense with Charles. But I do feel I could talk to Sally about it.

'Well. He is sometimes quite,' I flounder, trying to think of the right word. 'Rough. Like our wedding night. It was...' I blush again but Sally gives me an encouraging smile and waves her cigarette as if urging me to carry on, but behind her cheerful expression I am sure I see worry lurking. '... painful. And he did not seem to care a bit. Sally, I cried myself to sleep that night. I may be no expert, but I am fairly sure that new brides do not _cry_ on their wedding night. Unless it is with happiness, of course.' There is no mistaking it. Sally is definitely looking a little worried now.

'Esme... he hasn't... he hasn't _hit_ you has he?' she says this in a voice so low I have trouble making it out.

'No,' I say, and she breathes a sigh of relief. 'But he has come close. At least, I believe he has. It is usually when he has had a hard day at work and something isn't right, either with his dinner or the house. He is also angry that I have not... caught yet. You know, become pregnant. He really wants children.'

Sally violently grinds her cigarette out in the ashtray and I follow suit, having smoked hardly any of mine. 'Esme... you talk about the idea of him being violent towards you as if it is normal.'

'Well, it is, isn't it? Or at least, fairly common? My father used to hit my mother at least three times a week for various offences.'

'Esme, I am telling you this now and I want you to remember it. It is not acceptable for a man to hit his wife, or any woman. If Charles ever hits you, _ever_, you have to get out of there. And even if you don't I want you to remember that you can always come to me. I will always help you.'

The conversation has taken a very serious turn, and I do not believe I am ready for it. After all, did I not vow when I married Charles to love, honor and obey him? I did not take those vows lightly, after all they were made before God. Still, I can see that she truly means what she is saying and it touches me that she cares about me so much.

'Thank you, Sally. But I do not think it will come to that. Honestly.'

'Well, the offer is open, if you need it. But let's talk about more exciting things. Have you given any thought to children's names?'

'A little.' This is a bit of a lie. I have given a _lot_ of thought to this subject. Above almost everything on this earth I wish for children. 'I was thinking of Beatrice Emily for a girl. Charles wants our daughter to be named after his mother so that is where Emily comes in.' Sally nods and smiles. 'It is a lovely name. And for a boy?'

'I have always liked David Oliver. Charles of course wants a son named after him so I expect any boy of mine will end up being Charles Junior.' I _have_ always liked the name David, for no real reason. But what is swimming through my mind is the wish that I had known Doctor Cullen's name. I am sure it would have been beautiful.

'I was thinking about David for awhile when I was pregnant the first time,' Sally admits. 'But then, as you know, I decided to go for Edward instead.'

'Oh, how _is_ Edward? What is he now... three?'

'Yes, about to turn four. He misses you, you know. You should drop by the house more often.'

'I will, I promise. Heavens, is that the time? I am so sorry, Sally, I have to go. Charles likes me to be at home when he returns from work.'

'Of course. I'll see you soon, darling.'

She waves me off as I pick up my coat and bag and head out of the cafe.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I make it back slightly too late. I can tell as soon as I spot Charles's umbrella, coat and hat hung up in the hallway.

'Charles? Darling?' I call as I hurriedly hang my own clothes up and move toward the kitchen. 'I am so sorry I'm late. I was out with Sally...'

My voice tails off as the door to the study flies open and Charles appears before me. He is clasping his usual tumbler of whisky in his hand.

'Myrtle had to bring me my drink tonight,' he announces softly. 'You know that is your duty. I did not believe it was that onerous.'

'Of course it isn't darling...' I start again, but again he cuts me off.

'_Where_ did you say you had been?'

'With Sally. We had tea at the cafe in town and I am afraid I lost track of the time.'

He smiles grimly. 'Sally Scholes. Of course, I should have known you would have been with _her_. How is she nowadays? Still whoring herself out to the highest bidder?'

'_Charles_!' I cry, shocked to my very core. I know that Charles does not approve of Sally but I never thought I would hear him describe her in that manner. He gulps at his drink and rakes his shrewd eyes over me. 'Did you really go out like that? You look frankly ridiculous. And what is this? Make-up?' He laughs, scornfully. 'Make-up will never fix your looks, no matter how hard you try, darling.'

'Charles,' I say again, my voice shaking slightly. 'Why are you being like this?' He looks as if he is about to say something and then he sniffs the air slightly.

'Have you... have you been _smoking_, Esme?'

'No!' I cry, a little too quickly. 'Sally smokes, she must have blown it over me.' But I can feel the blush starting to rise and Charles knows when I am lying to him.

'I have told you, have I not, how I feel about that filthy habit?' Charles asks, dangerously quietly. He starts moving towards me, and automatically, I find myself moving backwards, away from him.

'Yes, but it was just once, I promise...' With no warning Charles raises his hand and launches his tumbler of whisky into the air. It smashes against the wall behind me with an ear-splitting crash and shards of glass fly outwards. I scream and cover my head, trying to protect myself should any glass come my way.

'You disobeyed me, Esme. I would have thought your vows would have meant more to you than that. Love, honor and _obey_. You have not merely gone against me, you have gone against God.'

The blow comes out of nowhere. Suddenly I am falling sideways, thrown by the force of his hand on my left cheek. My head smacks against the wall of the narrow hallway as I fall, making my ears ring. Collapsed on the ground I can do nothing but draw my legs under me and clasp my hand to my injured cheek. But Charles has already bent down and has his hand around my throat and is pulling, _pulling_ me upwards. I choke slightly as my feet scrabble for a firm foothold on the carpet. And then he has me pinned against the wall and his hand is _squeezing_. I can feel his rough fingers digging into the soft flesh of my throat and the pain is searing and I cannot _breathe_...

He releases me and I collapse once more. Almost absently he looks down at me and then kicks me hard on my thigh. I cry out once more and the tears start to roll as I gasp for breath and try and massage my throat.

As he turns to walk back down the hallway to his study I manage a few hoarse, raspy words.

'Charles... you cannot treat me like this. I will never forgive you.'

He turns and looks at me stonily. 'You are my _wife_ Esme. You belong to me and I shall do whatever I please. I advise you not to ever speak to me in that manner again if you know what is good for you.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**March 29****th**** 1918**

'Esme, are you quite sure you are feeling okay? You have been picking at that food for the last five minutes.'

My mother is eyeing me anxiously from her position across the table. I blink and try to think of what to say. Next to me Charles shifts in his chair and suddenly I feel the prongs of a fork pressing painfully hard into the flesh of my upper thigh. My breath catches in my throat as the sharp agony clouds my mind.

'Esme? Darling?'

'I'm fine,' I manage eventually, and the fork recedes. 'I'm just a little tired and I don't seem to have much of an appetite today.'

'It's your favorite though, darling. I made it specially.'

'Helen, give it a rest will you? She said she isn't hungry,' my father growls, shovelling food into his mouth. My mother flushes, falls silent and stares down at her plate. Beside me Charles gives one of his repulsive snorting laughs.

_I have to tell them. Surely... surely when they know what he does, they'll help me... They have to... I'm their daughter. Their only child!_

But the trouble is is that this little voice is not very convincing. The sensible, less optimistic part of my personality, claims that they will probably merely tell me that my duty is to stay with him as a dutiful wife. And surely I did make those vows before God, did I not?

XXXXXXXX

Lunch is finished and the men have retired to the drawing room for their whisky. I am helping my mother stack the plates in the kitchen, ready for her housekeeper to clean later. I will not get a better opportunity to talk to her without Charles or my father around. Steeling myself, I gather all my courage.

'Mother? Could I talk to you about something?'

She turns to me and sweeps a strand of hair behind her ear. 'Of course, darling. What's on your mind?'

My hands twist anxiously in front of me as I try to think of the best way to begin this conversation. Because once I start, there will be no going back.

'It's about Charles. I have a problem. I mean, there is a problem with our marriage.'

My mother's face creases in sympathy.

'Oh, Esme darling. Children will arrive eventually. I know you are probably disappointed not to be pregnant yet, but just give it time.'

'No, Mother, it's not that. It's... well... he beats me, Mother. Charles hits me.' There. It is out, and now it cannot be unsaid. My mother's face has blanched of color and she clutches onto the counter tighter, as if to steady herself. This reaction sparks a shred of hope within me. Perhaps I was wrong and the little voice inside me was right. Her next words obliterate the tiny glow completely.

'You should not be talking to me about this, Esme. It is not my place to interfere in relations between a husband and wife.'

I gape and blink. 'But... but you are my _mother_. I am your only child! He hits me!' Angry tears of frustration and betrayal rise in my eyes and I dash them away. Abruptly I roll the sleeves of my dress up and reveal the bruises littering my upper arms. 'See! And this!' I yank at the neckline of my dress and show her the red weal I received at my throat when we were in bed last night. My mother frowns.

'Temper, Esme. Please try to conduct yourself in a more ladylike fashion. This shouting is most unseemly.'

There are no words. I cannot say anything. All I can do is stare at my mother in silence as I smooth the neckline of the dress and roll my sleeves back down. My mother sighs and passes a hand across her brow.

'Listen very carefully to me, Esme, because what I am about to tell you will help you in the end.' I stare at her blankly. 'You cannot do anything about this. Your duty, a duty you swore to obey in the sight of God, is to stay with your husband. To love, honor and obey him. It may seem unfair, but the quicker you learn that the better.'

I think I am beyond tears. Just as I am about to turn away from her, I hear a cough at the door. My eyes widen in alarm.

'Hope I'm not interrupting you, ladies?' That voice as smooth as a snake. He is always the most angry with me when he uses that tone. I turn, attempting to quell my panicky heart and subtly wipe my palms on the fabric of my skirt.

'Of course not, darling,' I manage with barely a shake in my voice. 'We were just finishing up the dishes. Weren't we, mother?'

'That's right. I think we're finished now, though.' With a quick glance at me she glides out of the room to join my father. Charles takes a step further into the kitchen. I smile brightly.

'Did you have a nice talk with my father, darling?'

'Don't play the innocent with me, Esme. I know exactly what you and your mother were discussing. I overheard the last part of the conversation and it does not take a genius to work it out. We are going home. Right now. And I will teach you what happens when you disrespect me. A lesson I had hoped you would have learnt by now.'

He strides across the kitchen and latches onto my wrist with a grip of iron. He drags me to the doorway of the drawing-room and I have to stifle a whimper of pain as his sharp nails dig into the flesh.

As my mother and father look up from the couch he releases his grip and slides his hand down so that he is cradling mine gently in his. The picture of a loving husband.

'I think we shall be heading off now. Esme is feeling a little tired. Thank you so much for lunch Helen, it was absolutely delicious.' My mother smiles, charmed. 'And that whisky was sublime John.'

My father smirks. 'Only the best for my son-in-law, Charlie.' So it's Charlie now.

I murmur goodbye and Charles drags me outside.

By the time we get home I have mentally prepared myself for what is coming. Charles's jaw is set and his lips have thinned, proof that he is furious. What an idiot I was, to mention anything to my mother. I should have known her response, I should have known Charles would find me out. Then the little voice in the back of my mind whispers _If it wasn't this it would have been something else._ For some reason that thought strengthens me slightly. I know it is true. I cannot blame myself for Charles's actions.

The door slams shut behind us and I busy myself with removing my coat, hat and shoes, aware of his eyes boring into my back. My heart feels like it is beating ten times a second and my palms have become clammy with sweat.

'Esme.'

His voice is quiet and calm. Slowly I turn to face him and as soon as I do his fist connects with my jaw. Hard and fast. Brutal. I fall to the hard flooring of the hall and curl up, enduring the beating as best as I can, trying to protect my ribs. This particular punishment is longer than the others, far longer. I lose track of time as the blows rain down, indiscriminately. It seems he is too angry to bother about hitting me somewhere hidden to other eyes. What had at first seemed like individual points of searing pain become blurred and soon my whole being is shaking in agony. Easily the most painful are the spots where he has hit me before, where the marks, bruises and cuts haven't had time to fully heal. Idly I wonder if he really means to kill me this time.

**I'm very sorry! But this is necessary for the time being. I console myself with the knowledge that she meets Carlisle again and hideous Charles gets his comeuppance. Au revoir xxxx (press the little review button, go on, you know you want to...)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: So I realise that I have not uploaded this in like, years, but anyway. I have recently gone on a total roll with this and have at least the next five chapters written. I cannot guarantee that updates will be regular, but I am doing this for my own needs, just because I need to get it out there! Anyway, I hope everybody enjoys regardless. If you do, please drop me a line, it really does mean a lot. We'll be hearing from Carlisle again next chapter, **

**Disclaimer: Twilight does not belong to me, etc, etc**

**Warnings: I am bringing the rating up to an 'M' in the next chapter, only because the themes are going to get a lot darker and the violence worse. Thought it better to be safe!**

**Chapter Six**

**April 1****st**** 1918**

**Esme's POV**

'The mail has arrived, sir. Shall I bring it through?'

Charles does not favor Myrtle with an audible answer, merely nods his head curtly and continues to study his morning paper. I eat my breakfast in silence, surreptitiously glancing at the headlines as he reads.

The war is going from bad to worse and about a week ago the papers were full of the news that the Germans had started to sink US submarines. The President had no choice but to declare war on Germany and ally the USA with Britain and France. I know this is what the Allied Countries had been counting on, the American participation and I can understand their wishes. But the selfish part of me had hoped that we could just stay out of this mess and continue living as we have always done.

Already American men are being called up and transferred overseas – thousands and thousands of miles away from their families.

The mail is brought to the table and laid in front of Charles. He folds his newspaper up neatly and I immediately return my eyes to my plate, unwilling to catch his attention for even a moment. The savage beating he administered a couple of days ago has left its mark, both on my body and my mind. One of the bruises on my thigh itches slightly and I move my fingers against it in an attempt to quell the irritation.

I sense Charles reach for the letter-knife and slit the envelope of the first piece of mail. It cannot be anything of importance, for after a brief second of silence as he reads, he snorts in exasperation and tosses it to the side of the table. The sound of the mail being opened and read becomes rhythmic and I fall into a kind of daze as I try and eat my eggs. I am having trouble concentrating on anything much these days. My mind, which was once sharp and agile, seems to be constantly fogged.

Suddenly there is a break in the monotony. A sharp clatter causes me to lift my head, eyes searching for the origin of the sound. Charles is sitting slumped against the back of his chair, a letter held slackly in his hand. The clatter must have been the letter-knife being dropped for some reason. _What is wrong?_

'Darling?' The endearment sticks in my throat as if I would choke on it. 'Darling? What is it?'

He jerks, as if suddenly jolted back to the world of the living. Slowly he lifts his gaze to meet mine. For almost the first time since our wedding his eyes hold no anger, hate or contempt. They are blank and glazed. More curious than ever, I drop my gaze to the letter still clasped loosely in his hand. I cannot make anything of it out.

'What is it?' I repeat, hoping that this shocked state will mean he is unable to physically punish me for my questions.

Mechanically he raises his arm and lays the letter on the table. It lies between us, innocuous and unthreatening. With his fingers he nudges it towards me. I take this as a sign I am meant to read it. From his attitude the first thought that crosses my mind is that somebody close to him has died... his mother or his father perhaps. But that seems absurd, both Frederick and Emily were in the best of health the last time we visited them.

I pick up the letter and scan the words inscribed on the paper. At first they do not make sense to me, I cannot absorb them. Once my brain rallies and concentrates, however, they start to make an impact. I read the contents through twice. I know what I should be feeling. Any honest, true wife in love with her husband would be crying and screaming in desperation and panic. I do nothing of the sort. I am numb.

What can this mean for me? Freedom... days, months, perhaps even years, without the fear of retribution for some imagined wrong. Days when I can leave the house without limping, without wearing large hats to try and hide the bruises. I can see friends and smoke as much as I like, should I so wish. I will not have to endure the shame and agony every night as he claims his conjugal rights. This letter I have in my hand now. I know what it means for me. It means my life.

How much time has gone past? Minutes? Seconds? I do not know. Slowly, hoping my expression does not give away my joy, I look at my husband. He looks back at me. And I know he's aware of what this means to me. He knows that I am not a bit saddened or upset. And he doesn't care. After all, he was never after someone to love. He wanted someone weaker who he could control and punish. He feels so weak and impotent in his junior position at the bank, so feeble and pitiful compared to some of the other men who work there, he has to come home and prove to himself and others that he is a man by abusing his wife. There is a word for someone like that. A coward. And how on earth is a coward supposed to endure and survive a war? Where it is kill or be killed? I have a passionate urge to laugh.

Charles does not say a word. He rises from the table, knocking back his chair with a clatter, and leaves the room. Myrtle enters, alerted by the sound of falling furniture, and carefully sets the chair back in its proper place, all the while looking at me curiously.

'Is something the matter with Mr Evenson, madam?' she asks, whilst starting to clear away his half-finished plate of food.

'I believe he may have received some fairly bad news,' I murmur neutrally, picking up the letter and folding it neatly. 'He didn't tell me.'

'I'm sorry for that,' she says in her forthright manner. 'I hope it isn't anything too upsetting. Will he be back to finish this?' she adds, indicating the cup of untouched coffee.

'I doubt it, Myrtle,' I answer, getting up from the table myself. 'I should clear it if I were you.'

'Of course, madam,' she replies. I leave the room to go upstairs. As I reach the hall, Charles's voice arrests me.

'I'm leaving for work. I may be late home, I need to arrange matters. Have you got that letter?' He is calm and cool, but I detect a glimmer of panic under his carefully modulated tone. Again the laughter rises in me, but I keep it down and hand him the paper.

For a moment he stares at me and there is a warning clear in his eyes. He is telling me silently that this news does not change anything. That I still belong to him, and I always will.

**3****rd**** April 1918**

I watch the motor slowly disappear down the road from the bedroom window. That is it. He has gone. He has left. I'm here on my own and he is gone for a warzone thousands of miles away. The relief buoys me up, leaving me feeling lighter than I have done for months. Years, perhaps.

He left me with warnings as to what will happen to me if I forget myself when he is away. Yes, the brand new gash still bleeding across my temple and a couple of newly bruised ribs, not to mention what I believe to be at least a badly sprained ankle.

As quickly as it has come, the euphoria vanishes and I stumble back to the bed in the centre of the room, catching the heel of my shoe on something as I go. I do not make it to the bed. I tumble to the floor, the joints in my injured ankle screaming as it twists underneath me. The pain helps me to focus.

_Stupid girl!_ my mind shrieks at me. _You think he's really gone? Forever? You're deluding yourself!_ Thousands of people die in wars, I think desperately. Hundreds of thousands. It's tragic, awfully tragic for the majority, yes. But couldn't Charles be one of that number? I have to hope that he will be. _But there is always a chance_, that hateful voice whispers.

Yes, there is always a chance. A chance that some day, however far or near in the future it may be, that I will turn and find him standing beside me. Smiling that dreadful smile as he raises his fist or an iron poker...

'He'll come back,' I whimper to myself, hardly aware that I have spoken the words aloud. I draw my knees up to my chin and massage my ankle with both hands, trying to ignore the sparks of pain. 'He'll always come back. I'll never be free.'

'Madam?' The voice of Myrtle at the door. 'You have a visitor. Will you come down?'

'Who is it?' I ask, my voice sounding weak and shaky.

'Mrs Scholes. She's in the hallway.'

Sally. Of course. Of course she would be here. I told her the news yesterday.

'Show her into the drawing-room would you, Myrtle?' I say. 'I shall be down in a couple of minutes.'

'Yes, madam.' Myrtle leaves and I hear her footsteps tapping down the stairs. Tiredly I pull myself to my feet, ignoring the ankle, and limp over to my dressing table, collapsing on the little stool. My reflection in the mirror shocks me. It has been so long since I have looked at myself properly.

My chestnut hair hangs limply when once it used to curl wildly and I could never control it. The recent cut on my temple still oozes blood which is even now trickling down past my eyebrow. There are several fairly livid bruises standing out on my cheekbones and jaw from the punches to the face. But it is my eyes which startle me the most. I always liked my eyes best of all my facial features. My nose is a shade too long and my mouth too wide. But my eyes I felt I could be proud of. No longer. They appear to have sunk into my face, leaving shadows like bruises around the rims. There is no life in them anymore. I don't look like myself. I look like a stranger, a woman who is fifty instead of only twenty-two. Even my skin appears to be drooping, as if it has given up.

I cannot see Sally like this. Perhaps I can tell Myrtle I am feeling ill and she will go away. But no, this is Sally. Sally would insist on seeing me, just to make sure I am alright. I will have to face her. Mechanically I begin to apply make-up, attempting to cover up the worst of the bruises. I mop the blood off my face with a pad of cotton and pull a strand of limp hair over my forehead, hoping it will hide it sufficiently. I cannot be bothered to try and think of another clumsy incident to explain it away to Sally. She wouldn't believe me anyway.

Once I have brightened my cheeks up with some rouge and vigorously brushed and fluffed my hair, I do look a little more like my old self. Apart from the eyes. There is nothing I can do about them.

_What would Doctor Cullen think – if he could see me now?_

The thought startles me and I almost physically jump. I used to think of Doctor Cullen all the time. But recently I have been so preoccupied with attempting to anticipate Charles's next attack and survive it I suppose I have had no time to waste with daydreams. But now the thought has struck and I have to think about it. The last time Doctor Cullen had seen me I was sixteen-years-old. Young, vibrant and a little wild. Passionate. Loving life. My eyes hadn't lost their sparkle. What would he think of me now? Would he even think of me at all?

_No, he wouldn't_ the voice whispers. _You're damaged now, and besides, you look like an old lady_. My mind sets an image of what I look like now to the picture of Doctor Cullen I have in my memory. Shining fair hair. Sculpted cheekbones. Piercing golden eyes. Of course he would have aged over the years. But I imagine time has been kind to him. His eyes will be just as sparkling, his smile just as bright, his skin just as flawless. In a few more years, perhaps the first hints of grey will start to creep in at his temples. It will make him look distinguished and sophisticated. In another few years perhaps he will wear glasses. They will accentuate his features and lend him an air of wisdom.

But this sort of thinking is getting me nowhere. Daydreams and fantasies are all very well when you're sixteen, but I should be thinking about reality. And reality at this moment entails talking to Sally like nothing is wrong.

Slowly I make my way down the stairs, careful not to jar my injured ankle too much. A gasp of pain would certainly alert Sally to the fact that there is something amiss. She stands in the hallway, fiddling with her hat.

'Esme! There you are at last! What on earth have you been doing with yourself, I haven't seen you in ages!'

I reach the bottom of the stairs and she immediately slips her arm through mine, leading me in the direction of the drawing-room, chattering nineteen to the dozen. I lose myself in her talk, attempting to focus. As we sit on the couch I casually brush my hair back behind my ear, a gesture I perform without thinking. Until I suddenly remember why I had arranged my hair like that and desperately try to comb it back over my forehead. But it is too late. Sally's keen eyes have already detected what I longed so much to hide from her.

'Esme? What is that on your temple?' I act confused, not particularly hard, since it is so hard for me to concentrate on anything these days.

'What? What's what on my temple?'

In a flash she is up off the couch and kneeling in front of me, brushing the hair back from my eyes again. Her gaze is fixed on the ugly cut.

'_That_,' she says. 'Esme... did Charles do this to you?'

Hastily I try to gather my mental faculties together. 'Of course not, Sal,' I reply, maybe a little too quickly. 'I just hit my head against the doorframe. That's all.' Even as I say it, I know she doesn't believe me. Her green eyes have narrowed and she is fixing me with a piercing, yet sympathetic stare.

'You seem to be doing that a lot recently,' she comments eventually. Sighing she twists herself to face me fully and reaches out so she is holding both my hands in hers. 'Esme, darling, _please_ tell me the truth. Do you remember that conversation we had in the café a few weeks ago?'

I nod. How could I forget? That had been the day Charles hit me for the first time. For the crime of smoking. For going against his wishes.

'Well then, you will remember what I said about violence not being acceptable. And I will help you, you know I will.'

I take a deep breath and suddenly crumple against the cushions of the couch. It is no good, I cannot hide it any longer. The tears come quickly and start sliding down my bruised face. Sally moves over so she is sitting right next to me and wraps one arm tenderly around my shoulders. Still crying I lean my head into her shoulder, vaguely aware that I am probably ruining her lovely new blouse.

'I'm so weak, Sally,' I sob brokenly. 'I tried to stop him, I really did, but he just wouldn't listen.'

Sally rubs my shoulder soothingly but when she speaks her voice is pained. 'I'm so sorry for you, Esme. And you are _not_ weak. He is the weak one. He's a coward.' She takes a deep breath and tightens her grip on me. 'He is gone now, and God forgive me for saying this, but hopefully he will not come back. Many don't. We just have to hope that he is one of them.' She pulls away from me and I feel a finger under my chin, lifting my head so that I am forced to look at her. My vision is blurry with tears but I can see her concern and sadness radiating from her.

'I will help you, Esme. It has killed me to see you so distressed these last few weeks. I was sure there was something going on but you avoided talking about it everytime I brought it up and I didn't want to intrude. But you are free now. You can start living _your_ life again. Not his, and not your parents. Yours.'

'You really think I could do that?' I ask tremulously, hating the shaking in my voice. When had I allowed myself to lose so much of who I am? When had I allowed Charles to take it from me?

'I think you can do whatever you want to do, darling,' Sally says, leaning in and planting a quick kiss on my forehead. Her hand moves up and smoothes my hair. Nodding and sniffing I sit up straighter on the couch and take a few deep breaths.

'I'm very sorry, Sally. I was being ridiculous. Whatever must you think of me?'

'I think you're a very courageous and brave woman, Esme Evenson. Now, how about we have a smoke together to celebrate your husband's departure?' The words are brazen and for a moment I merely blink at Sally, almost unable to believe what she has just said. Then the fear steals hold of me, freezing my blood. Smoking in the house? Smoking at all? What if Charles smells it when he...

_Silly. He's gone. You can smoke as much as you like. You can do anything!_

Sally can evidently read my changing thoughts in my face as she frowns and then smiles widely a few seconds later.

'Come along then. I have a marvellous new brand you just have to try. Have you got an ashtray anywhere darling?'

Steeling myself I rise from the sofa and move to the door to call out to Myrtle.

'Myrtle? Could you fetch Mr Evenson's ashtray from his study and bring it in here please?'

There is a pause and then Myrtle's plump figure appears at the end of the hall. 'The ashtray, madam?' she asks, seemingly shocked. For a moment my courage almost fails me and then, casting a quick glance back to Sally, who nods vigorously at me, I look back to Myrtle.

'Yes, the ashtray.'

Myrtle looks at me for a second longer and then nods her head, her eyes unfathomable. 'Right away, madam.'

I return to the couch, my ankle twinging once more with pain. I ignore it and dig my fingers into the material of the cushions, as if try and hold my nerve. After a few moments have passed Myrtle appears at the door with the tray and proceeds to place it on the coffee table in front of Sally and I.

'Will that be all, madam?' she asks.

'For now. Thank you, Myrtle.'

She looks at me for a second longer and then, quicker than anything, winks swiftly and inclines her head.

'You're more than welcome, madam.'

Abruptly she leaves us and I sit in astonishment for a second before remembering that Myrtle had been the one to pour Charles his usual drink the evening I came back from the café. She had been there in the house and had undoubtedly heard everything that happened. And now, it seems, she had not been unsympathetic. Maybe Sally is right and violence between a wife and husband is not quite as usual as I'd previously believed.

Sally brings me back to reality by waving a cigarette under my nose. I take it from her and she roots around in her handbag for a moment, eventually withdrawing a beautiful silver lighter. She lights hers first and then mine.

A moment of panic seizes me as the first plume of smoke twirls its way up toward the ceiling, illuminated by the watery morning sun coming in from the windows. I manage to reassure myself.

_He is gone. Gone. And hopefully he will never come back_.

Sally leans back on the couch, inhaling and exhaling lazily. It is quiet for awhile between us with the occasional movement to lean forward and tap the ash into the tray. Eventually Sally speaks.

'So, what do you think you will do with your newfound freedom?'

The question is unexpected. I hadn't even thought about it. I have spent so long doing exactly what others expect of me, I cannot even remember for a moment what I ever wanted for myself. Sally, of course, sees that the question has caught me off guard and she nods in understanding.

'You've lost yourself a little, darling. That's only understandable after what you have been through. But this is your chance. You can get it back.' She sighs and eyes me thoughtfully for a second, taking another drag at her cigarette as she does so. I try not to squirm under her direct gaze and instead my free hand fiddles with the hem of my dress.

'Didn't you say once to me you would like to teach? Elementary school?'

'Yes but... I cannot work as a teacher. I cannot work at all.'

Sally blinks. 'Why on earth not?'

'Charles wouldn't approve...' I begin to say, before realising how foolish I sound. But in truth the idea does fill me with an unreasonable dread. Working for myself, it is such an independent thing to do.

'Do not _ever_ let me hear you say anything like that again, darling,' Sally responds sharply. 'You should get a job. You'd make a wonderful teacher.'

'I... I just don't think I can, Sal,' I respond honestly and quietly. 'It would be, too much. I'm not strong enough. I've barely left the house in weeks. I flinch whenever a door slams shut or at any loud noise. The littlest thing can remind me of him. I'd be a nervous wreck teaching at a school.'

Sally's eyes fill with sympathy. 'I'm so sorry Esme. I didn't realise... well, but, there must be something else you could do? Maybe teaching isn't the right thing at this moment.'

I raise my gaze from where it has fallen to the carpet. 'I did see an advertisement outside the library the other day,' I mention tentatively.

It was up in the window when I passed. A faded slip of paper with the words. 'WANTED: Assistant. Flexible working hours. Apply within.' At the time I only hardly noticed it. I was keen to get home as quickly as possible from grocery shopping as Charles was now liable to beat me into unconciousness over the slightest misdemeanour.

Sally is smiling broadly at me. 'That's perfect, Esme! You have always loved books, haven't you? We must apply straight away. Today.'

I take a final drag of my cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray. Sally swiftly follows suit. I gaze at her for a moment before replying.

'Today? I'm not sure, Sal... maybe it might be better to wait...'

Sally raises an admonishing finger at me. 'Nonsense. The sooner the better. We need to get your life started Esme.'

'I can hardly go out like this, Sally. I'm a wreck. And I think I've badly sprained my ankle. A walk into town would hardly help.'

Sally relents slightly. 'Fine. A few days rest probably won't hurt. But promise me you'll do this? I'll come along with you, of course.'

I think for awhile. A job. A chance to have some independence. My own money. My life. It does not take me long to decide.

'Yes, fine. How about the tenth? That will give my ankle time to heal and these bruises to fade.'

'The tenth it is. I'll pick you, sharp at nine o'clock. Yes?'

'Fine,' I agree, astonished at how easily the acquiescence comes from my lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Another update! This is basically just a filler, but it does cover some important character developments, so even though nothing massively exciting happens, I hope you bear with it. The next update will cover the certainly **_**very**_** exciting events which start on June 2****nd****... no prizes to who guesses what that is, lol :p**

**Disclaimer: Twilight has never belonged to me. Ever.**

**Warnings: None, although the rating is now going up to an 'M'.**

**Chapter Seven**

**Carlisle's POV**

**7****th**** April 1918**

The day is overcast and stormy. I should be at home now, or at least, my semblance of a home. Instead I am at the hospital, where I have spent the majority of my time in the past few weeks. I only go home when I am forced to and even then I return as quickly as possible. Only a couple of days ago one of the very senior doctors pulled me aside for a talk. His face was strained and pale, his eyes bloodshot with dark rings beneath.

'Listen Cullen,' he had said, speaking hurriedly. 'You have to go home every once in a while. Your dedication is certainly admirable but some of us are wondering if you're stretching yourself too thin. The very last thing we need is for one of our best doctors to succumb as well. Do yourself, and the rest of us, a favor. Go home, get some rest and come back in a day or two.'

I had opened my mouth to protest and then realized that I probably shouldn't. If my cover as a human is to be maintained I should act as if I am at least concerned about the possibility of my becoming sick. Of course, I know it is an impossibility. But everybody here can never know that. Feigning an air of tiredness I yawn deeply and rub unnecessarily at my eyes.

'Maybe you're right. I do feel a little exhausted.'

'Of course,' he nods quickly. 'It's natural. We'll see you in a couple of days.'

And then he had hurried off, his steps quick and urgent, winding his way down the corridor. It used to be completely empty but is now strewn with beds on iron wheels and blankets against the walls containing shuddering, choking and coughing specimens of humanity.

And so I took a couple of days off as prescribed, all the time yearning to be back where I can make a difference, where I can use my abilities to _help_. I am the only one never at risk of becoming sick. I am the only one who cannot get tired. Even to take a few days off as a precaution to maintain my cover floods me with a terrible sense of guilt.

I spent the time hunting to fortify me for my next shifts and reading through all my journals once more, trying desperately to think of something which would effectively treat the patients, but to no avail. There is simply no cure. Those who sicken will die. The most we can do is make them as comfortable as we possibly can.

Now I make my way to my next patients, clutching my chart tightly to my chest. Everywhere I look there are dying people and the air is filled with the sounds of coughing and the scent of disease. To my superior senses it is almost unbearable. The horrific odors combine together, each one potent in its own right, mixing to make the smell of death. Vomit, mucus and the sickly sweet morphine. And yet in the midst of all these foul scents is one which still tempts me. Human blood. It comes from those who have advanced to the later stages of the illness, the ones who are no longer coughing up just mucus, but blood from their lungs. They are the ones who do not have long left.

The Spanish Influenza is its proper name. Around Chicago it has acquired a number of nicknames, one of the most popular being _The Chokes_. The lighthearted name masks the fear everybody feels. It has swept through the city like a tornado, cutting down almost all in its path. Those who have not yet succumbed remain closeted in their houses, scared even to open a window despite the fact that summer is on its way. The hospitals are filled to bursting and yet more are arriving each day, desperate for a cure which is never going to be found.

My next patients are an elderly woman, already far advanced and a newly married couple who both started exhibiting symptoms a couple of days ago. I tend to the elderly lady first. She does not have long to live. I can hear the blood pounding sluggishly through her veins, smell the infection clogging up her organs. She gazes up at me, her eyes glazed and attempts to speak but her voice is hoarse and cracked.

Kneeling down beside her bed I support her head with one arm while with the other I grasp the water glass on the bedside and raise it to her lips. She takes a few weak gulps, the liquid trickling down her withered chin.

'Did you want to say something, Mrs Alcott?' I ask tenderly. I have been with her since she first showed symptoms and comforted her when her husband Alfred passed away, about a week ago.

'I... want to thank you, Doctor Cullen,' she mutters her voice incredibly quiet, but of course it is no difficulty for me to pick up her words. 'For what you did for me and... dear Alfred.' I smile sadly, reaching for the stethoscope lying around my neck. Even though I know her exact condition without using it, the human charade has to be enforced.

'It's my job, Mrs Alcott,' I murmur as I place the stethoscope against her chest and put the earbuds in. 'I just want to make sure you're comfortable.'

She allows me to listen to her heartbeat but continues whispering hoarsely. 'No... it's more than that with you. You're different. Some of these doctors, I see them, they don't make any effort anymore. They've already given up.' She smiles at me slightly wearily, it is clear the simple movement is costing her. 'You don't give up, Doctor Cullen.'

I continue listening and then take the stethoscope away, unable to think of an answer.

'Well, Doctor? Am I going to die?' The very way she says it makes it clear she knows what the reply will be. Of course she does. Everybody knows, even though some try to pretend that it isn't happening. Some remain in denial up until the very end. Mrs Alcott is a remarkable woman and she deserves nothing less than blank honesty.

'Yes, Mrs Alcott. I'm very sorry. There is nothing I can do apart from make you comfortable.'

She nods slightly, her eyelids drooping. 'How long?'

This is almost unbearable and I feel my eyes pricking with phantom tears. 'Hours. A day at the most.'

She coughs harshly and a few blood droplets spatter her pitifully thin blanket. The fresh scent assaults my nostrils as usual, but it is easy for me to ignore it. 'What is your name?' she asks. 'I'd like to know the name of the man who cared for me in my last days.'

I hesitate. Of course it is a breach of etiquette, not to mention hospital policy, but I do not feel I can deny her. And what harm will it do? She will be dead in a few hours. The harsh thought crosses my mind and I wince internally.

'My name is Carlisle,' I whisper. She smiles as her eyes finally drift closed.

I tuck her blankets in securely and make my way to the couple, forcing myself to walk at a normal, though naturally hurried, human pace. As I reach their bedsides they both look up at me, relief at seeing me clear in their eyes. Patients here can spend days without seeing a doctor. There are simply too many people and not enough medical personnel. I use my inability to get sick or tired to make sure that I get around my patients as regularly as possible.

Mr and Mrs Turner look a lot healthier than Mrs Alcott, but it will be only a matter of weeks before they are in a similar condition. The thought makes my unbeating heart clench. Mrs Turner is scared yet accepting of her illness. The same sadly cannot be said of her husband and it is difficult for me to hear him talk of a planned vacation when they both get better. Mrs Turner smiles sadly at him when he says this and I turn away.

The rest of my rounds take most of the day up and then I return to Mrs Alcott to check on her. Almost immediately I can tell she is dead. There is no need to even lay a finger to check her pulse. It does not seem that anybody else has noticed. Raking a hand through my hair I draw her blanket up over her face and head to the staff room to fill out the relevant paperwork. Her body is duly taken to the morgue, to be buried as soon as possible. The fear of infection is rife.

There is no time for me to properly acknowledge the loss of Mrs Alcott. The rest of my patients still need my time and care and, once again thankful of my _condition_, I head back out into the crowded wards and corridors.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Esme's POV**

**10****th**** April 1918**

Sally is bright and cheerful as we walk through town towards the library. It is a sunny day and everybody is outside enjoying the weather. Many of the headlines of the papers recently have been concerned with the war and the outbreak of what they are now calling the Spanish Influenza, but as of yet Ohio has not been touched by either.

I am thankful for it, but cannot help thinking that most of the major cities in America have been affected in some way by the flu. One city in particular. Chicago. It has been awhile since I have thought of Doctor Cullen, yet now, with the death toll from the pandemic rising ever higher, I am anxious for him. Wherever he is, I hope he is okay. His image is still burned into my memory and it makes me feel happier if I can believe that wherever he is in the world he is alive and well. Even though, of course, we will never meet again.

The sign is still up in the window of the library when we arrive and Sally squeezes my arm tightly before we walk inside. The early morning light filters through the windows and illuminates striped patterns on the oaken floor. The reception desk is right ahead and Sally strides towards it, almost dragging me in her wake.

'Can I help you?' the librarian asks, lifting his head as he hears us approach. Sally smiles at him.

'My friend has come about the position advertised.'

He switches his gaze to me and his eyes flash with warm recognition. 'I think I recognise you from around town. Aren't you Mrs Evenson?'

I flush and nod awkwardly. 'That's right. My husband Charles just got called up. He left about a week ago.'

He gives me a warm and comforting smile. 'I'm sure he'll be back before you know it. I wouldn't worry.'

I don't know exactly what to say, how can't tell him that I'm actually worried about him coming back so I keep silent.

'Do you have any experience in a workplace, Mrs Evenson?'

I shake my head slowly and then speak. 'No, I'm afraid I don't. But I have always loved books and I'm a very quick learner. I can do any hours you need me for.'

He glances down at the desk and collects a few papers together, putting them together in a pile. His brows knit together briefly and I glance at Sally anxiously. She gives me a reassuring smile.

'When can you start?' he asks suddenly, looking up once again. My heart almost stops with excitement. I almost can't believe the words.

'Well, as soon as needed,' I manage to reply, forcing the words out.

'I can only pay you ten dollars a week,' he warns, but his eyes are twinkling. Ten dollars of my own a week! Charles has left me money, of course, and it is enough to survive on. With this extra I can save up and plan for my future. I nod my head.

'That's absolutely fine,' I respond.

'Excellent.' He examines a sheet of paper on the desk again. 'Can you start Monday? Come in at ten o'clock and we'll see how you fit in.'

Sally gives me a beaming smile and we thank him and exit the library.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**16****th**** May 1918**

I have been working at the library for just over a month now. To my delight I find the work easy and comprehensible. Mr Scott, the librarian, took me through everything very carefully on my first day and within a week I was soon working with no assistance needed.

When I got my first pay packet I held it tightly and stowed it deep in my purse, unreasonably afraid that I would somehow lose it before I got home. To me it was not just ten dollars. It was a symbol of my resistance, of struggling out from under Charles's dominion to become my own person once again.

Today I am feeling brave. I have decided that I am going to redecorate some of the rooms in the house to my own design instead of Charles's ideas. His taste leans towards the dark and dreary and as a result several rooms are gloomy. I intend to change that. With a little bit of my pay I buy material for curtains and a few brightly colored rugs.

I spend a happy few hours sewing and hemming the material and enlist Myrtle's help to remove the heavy, old dark green curtains before hanging up the new ones. The drawing room immediately looks lighter and cheerier. I stand back to admire the effect. The work has made me feel hot and I hold my thick hair off my neck for a couple of minutes to cool down my neck. My hair is looking healthy again, it has already started to acquire its previous shine. I imagine that it might take quite a while longer for me to lose the haunted look in my eyes and stop flinching every time I hear a loud noise, but I am now starting to honestly believe I will get there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Okay so, a monster chapter to make up for the terrible shortness of the last one! This is where it all kicks off, I really hope I did it justice. It's actually very difficult to write! Bearing in mind this is now rated an 'M'**

**Warnings: Mentions of graphic violence**

**Disclaimer: Twilight will never, ever belong to me.**

**Chapter Eight**

**Carlisle's POV**

2nd June 1918

'Doctor Cullen! Over here a moment!'

I turn and head towards Doctor Wright who is holding a chart and looking almost frantic. When I reach him he virtually thrusts the chart into my hands.

'Another one's just come in. I'm giving him to you because you seem to be one of the only ones around here still working efficiently. God knows how you're doing it. His family have accompanied him, they're still healthy. If you can, persuade them to leave and go home. He's not got long left and they are at serious risk of infection if they stay here.'

I nod to show I understand and he hurries off. I glance down at the chart in my hands. The name is given as Edward Masen Snr and his age is thirty-eight. It is a sad fact that this particular strain of influenza targets the young and healthy, rather than the elderly and sick. We have already lost several good doctors and nurses to the disease, just over the last few weeks, making us still more short-handed than we already were.

As quickly as possible without drawing unwanted attention I make my way to the waiting room. The sight that greets me is horrific. The spacious room is filled with men, women and children, a few still healthy, most sick. Some have crumpled against the walls, unable to stand a moment longer. All the chairs are taken.

Eyes turn to me as I stand in the threshold and I cannot bear to see the hope in their gazes. Even though I am a doctor, for most of these people there is nothing I can do.

'Mr Masen Senior,' I call loudly and clearly, over the sounds of retching and coughing. There is a stir in the crowd and then I see a tall, trimly built man with a dark-red moustache stumbling towards me. He is supported by an equally tall youth who I suppose might be his son. There is definitely a family resemblance. A woman walks just behind, her eyes alert and anxious. As the pitiful family reach me I give my most reassuring smile, already aware of their reactions when in such close proximity to me. The boy is looking at me, wide-eyed, the man's brow has creased slightly in a frown and the woman's breathing stutters a little before evening out again.

'I'm Doctor Cullen, I'm going to be taking care of you Mr Masen.' I turn politely to the woman. 'I presume you must be Mrs Masen and this, your son?'

'That's right,' she replies and her voice is surprisingly steady considering the emotional strain she must be currently under.

'Well, you're in luck,' I say turning my attention back to the sick man. 'A bedspace has just opened up in Ward C. I'll take you there now and we can get you settled in and medicated.' I turn towards the boy. 'Would you like me to lend a hand supporting him there?'

The son looks carefully at me and I am taken aback by the glittering intelligence in his gaze. His eyes are green and vibrant and he almost seems to be actually seeing _me_ and not the veneer I put on for the human world. Slowly he nods and I smile, carefully placing his father's other arm around my neck, taking most of the weight from the boy's shoulders.

'What's your name, son?' I ask lightly as we make our way slowly down the corridors to Ward C, the mother fluttering anxiously behind us.

'Edward,' he mutters under his breath.

'Ah,' I respond. 'So you must be Edward Masen Junior, then.'

He nods but doesn't audibly reply. I get the distinct feeling that he feels more than he lets on and find myself impressed. Most people in this world are constantly talking and it is hardly ever about anything interesting. I am of the opinion that they just like the sound of their own voices. This boy isn't like that, he only speaks when he has something to say.

Soon we reach the ward and I take charge of Edward Masen Senior, helping him onto the bed and arranging the blankets. I turn to the mother and son apologetically.

'I am afraid we do not have any hospital gowns left. We ran out several weeks back now.' The woman nods.

'I understand that. It must be difficult for you and all the other doctors and nurses here. You're all doing such a brave thing.'

I smile and pause for a second before replying. 'There is something I want to talk to you about, Mrs Masen.'

'Call me Elizabeth, please.' I blink slightly at this breach of etiquette. Then it strikes me that this woman is just as extraordinary as her son. In the few minutes since I have met her she has remained strong and calm, for the most part. She must be terribly worried for her husband and yet she is keeping everything under control. A remarkable family indeed. It makes me wonder what Edward Masen Senior was like when healthy. Slowly I nod.

'Fine. Elizabeth, I want to talk to you about the risks of you staying here. I understand you wish to remain with your husband, but have you seriously considered the ramifications of your actions?'

She sighs deeply. 'Thank you for your concern, Doctor Cullen. But to be honest with you, as I'm sure you can see, my husband is in the advanced stages now. We kept him at home to keep him in familiar surroundings but his pain became too bad and he needs morphine. Both my son and myself have been exposed to the infection for a couple of weeks. If we are going to get it, we will.' She gives me a sad smile and pulls her son close, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and placing a loving kiss on the side of his forehead. He leans into her, his lanky form against her motherly one.

I feel a lump in my throat and cough slightly, even though I do not need to. I attempt a smile but I suspect it comes out as more of a grimace.

'Well, I can't force you to go home, of course.'

'We will, to eat and sleep. But we'll be back everyday. Did you hear that, Edward?' She turns to her husband and smooths his sweaty hair away from his forehead. Although his eyes are closed he nods weakly and manages a small smile.

Edward Junior reaches out, takes hold of his father's limp hand and gives it a small squeeze. Suddenly I have to get out of there. I draw myself up and smooth a hand through my hair.

'I need to go and check on my other patients. I will be back soon with some morphine for you Mr Masen. It will ease any pain you may have.'

'Thank you, Doctor,' he whispers.

I nod and move away, weaving my way around the numerous beds to continue my rounds. I have far more patients than any other doctor in the hospital, but of course I don't mind. Just so long as I occasionally feign tiredness and head home I am left to do my work uninterrupted for the most part. I have even started moving at a speed slightly too fast for a human, but nobody is ever concentrating on me. They have their own worries and do not notice.

5th June 1918

The trees blur past me as the hunt fills all my senses. Every nerve in my body is thrumming with the thrill of the chase, that elusive scent pulling me ever further onwards. This part of the forest is thick with trees yet even at my full speed they pose no problem for me. I can see every individual whorl of bark, intimate details on the tiniest leaf far above my head. Although this existence is for sure a cursed one, there are some things I enjoy. Hunting is one of them.

My research of my own condition has shown me many things over the ages but one of the most obvious is that a vampire is the ultimate predator. Wickedly fast, inhumanly strong and with senses that far exceed anything in the animal world. I am just glad that I found a way to survive without hunting humans. There is nothing more abominable to me. I do not want to be a monster, and living off animals allows me to keep myself strong without taking human life.

At the moment I am on the trail of a large male elk, in the forest far away from Chicago. The air is fresh and sweet up here, filled with notes of earth and pine, oak and pollen. It makes a delicious change from the aroma of contagion down in the city.

The elk is not far away now. The scent is becoming more potent, the thick metallic smell invading my every sense. I lose myself completely to the hunt, becoming what I am, a killer. This is the only time I can every lose control like this and it is still risky. There have been a couple of occasions when a human, for whatever reason, is in the vicinity but luckily my years of immuning myself to the scent of human blood has paid off and I find it simple to stop myself from hunting them instead.

Whipping through the trees I jump a twenty-foot ditch with ease, landing softly and lightly on the other side. The elk is just up ahead, I can see his dark brown flank between two young saplings. I am on him before he even realises I am there. My prey rarely know I am present until they feel my weight on their back and my teeth at their jugular. My movements while hunting are whisper silent, almost ghostly.

The spurt of liquid from the jugular vein hits the back of my throat, appeasing that ever present rough tickle. I drink deeply and the animal is drained within a minute. His death spasms become slower before finally stopping altogether. I draw away and lick my lips, chasing up the last few droplets of blood. It is not enough. I will need at least another two before I am completely satisfied. Standing as still as if frozen in place I sniff at the wind now blowing from the east. My features are granite, unmoving until I catch the familiar scent of elk again. My head whips around and a growl builds in my throat. Moving from a standstill to full speed in less than two seconds I am back on the chase. A monster indeed.

6th June 1918

After my hunting trip yesterday I feel refreshed and more at ease than I have in the past few days. The Turners have been struck off my rounds as they both died within a few days of each other a couple of weeks back. Of course there are always more patients to see. Far too many. The last on my list is Mr Masen.

I am anxious to check on him as the last time I saw him was two days ago. He'd already been in the hospital for a couple of days then and had clearly deteriorated fast. Now I whisk around corners, chart close to my chest, moving just that _little_ bit too fast.

Ward C is crowded but it's still less claustrophobic than some of the others. I spot Mr Masen's bed immediately and stride towards it. As I approach I can see that Mrs Masen is there, and the son. She is collapsed in a chair by the bedside, her head in her hands. Edward Junior is staring off into space, and I can see even at this distance that his eyes are blank and shuttered, that vibrant green dimmed. I don't need to examine Mr Masen. I don't even need to get closer, though of course I do. He is dead.

I reach the bed and lay a cool hand on Mrs Masen's shoulder. Evidently the chill permeates through her thin blouse as she shivers and glances up at me. Cursing at myself internally I swiftly remove my hand. That was an elementary mistake. I try and make sure not to make contact unless absolutely necessary. It can lead to questions.

_No, it's fine. I mean they are cold, but I..._

Those words, echoing across the span of years, still so vivid in my mind. Those beautiful and enquiring hazel eyes, flecked with green. The messy, curly chestnut hair spread in a halo around a pale, heart-shaped face. Esme. How long has it been now? Seven years. Seven years since I saw her last.

'I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs Masen.' I hear the formal words leaving my lips but my mind is still filled with Esme Platt's image. I shake my head slightly and drag my usually agile brain back to reality. Now is most definitely not the time to daydream. Mrs Masen is looking at me with a deep sorrow etched so deep in her features I am sure it is now permanent.

'It's Elizabeth, remember Doctor Cullen? And thank you. But I knew this was coming.' She glances to her son who has still not said a word, or even acknowledged my presence audibly, although his posture has become noticably stiffer. 'As did Edward. It's going to be very difficult for him.'

She coughs lightly but the sound is laced with a harshness which immediately puts me on alert.

'Mrs Ma... Elizabeth? I think I should give you a quick check-up.' I cannot help the anxiety which colors my tone and this at last catches the son's attention. He spins around on the spot to stare at his mother.

'It's not necessary, Doctor Cullen,' she says quietly. 'I already know I have it.'

Edward Junior's eyes widen impossibly large and he takes a step closer to us. 'Mother?' he whispers brokenly. I realise that this is the only time I have heard him speak apart from when he told me his name. I turn to console him and my eyes narrow as I take in his physical condition. His face is pale, almost unnaturally so, but this could be attributed to stress and exhaustion. However thanks to my acute hearing I can tell that his breathing is ever so slightly labored. I can almost see the presence of mucus building in his lungs. An overwhelming sorrow clouds my mind. What justice is there in the world? Not content with bringing down one, our vengeful God decides to obliterate the entire family.

Not for the first time I wonder exactly why I still hold onto my human belief that there is something _else_. A deity in control of our destinies. I suppose it's because I have to believe in _something_. I have to pray that I can be redeemed, that I still have a soul and am not a heartless monster, damned to eternal hell.

Edward is looking at me with a slightly puzzled expression, his chaotic russet hair falling in clumps over his pale forehead.

'What is it Doctor?' Elizabeth Masen's voice, usually so quiet and calm, rings out from behind me with an unexpected sharpness. I have clearly been gazing at Edward for too long and presumably the sadness is evident in my eyes.

'I am so sorry...' I begin, turning back to her. 'I'm sorry for you both.'

I sense Edward taking a step back, the tiny sound his boot makes on the floor is as clear as a bell ringing.

'No,' Elizabeth whispers, her eyes, so similar in shade to her son's, searching my face. 'Not... not Edward too?'

I bow my head, aware of Edward moving to stand close to his mother. 'I'm afraid so. I'm truly sorry. I will try and find another bed so that you can remain together in comfort.' They are not officially my patients but because I treated the father I know nobody will kick up a fuss if I take on these two. Besides, nobody else has the time to do it.

'But... how do you know? You haven't examined him! He doesn't even look sick!'

My brain whirs into action to find a reasonable explanation as to how I know Edward has the influenza. 'There are certain signs we look for,' I say smoothly, stopping a passing nurse and motioning towards Edward Senior's bed. There is no need to say anything. All the doctors and nurses here have non-verbal communication practiced to perfection now. I convey to her that we have another body for the morgue and that a second bed is needed. She hurries off, her leather shoes tapping on the tiles of the corridor.

'We should have another bed in a couple of hours,' I say quietly. 'I'll leave you to say your goodbyes but Mr Masen will have to be taken to the morgue very soon.' Even though my tone is soft the words still sound unbearably harsh. Elizabeth Masen nods, her eyes brimming with tears as she winds an arm around her son's waist. He leans his head on her shoulder burying his face in her blouse. He has not said a word since he heard he is sick too.

Turning away swiftly I make the rest of my rounds and by the time I return to the Masens' the body has been taken away and a new bed is set up. Mrs Masen has taken the bed previously occupied by her husband and Edward Junior is propped up in the other, studying a sheaf of papers intently.

'How are you both feeling?' I ask as I check Elizabeth's vitals.

'Not so bad,' she replies softly.

'And you?' I ask, turning to look at Edward. He glances up at me, his fall-colored bangs hanging low over his eyes.

'Fine,' he murmurs quietly, returning his attention to the papers in his hands.

'What are you reading?' I ask cheerfully as I check his pulse and listen to his heart. He doesn't reply but turns slightly so that I can see. 'Sheet music?' I say, surprised. That hadn't been what I expected.

'Edward's a talented pianist,' Elizabeth says proudly. 'I can never drag him away from his music.'

'Mom,' Edward protests quietly, his pale cheeks flushing with sudden color. He looks up at me again, his expression a mixture of defiance and embarrassment. 'I like to play the piano a little. That's all.'

'I have always loved classical music,' I remark neutrally, withdrawing the stethoscope and making a quick note on his chart. 'It's good to have a hobby.'

'What's yours?' he asks suddenly, his eyes showing a spark of interest. Perhaps he is unused to having another man accept his interest in playing the piano. I think for a moment before replying.

'Reading,' I reply honestly and smile slightly. 'I have always loved learning. And in a field such as this, there is always something new to study.'

He hums a little in what could be agreement before returning to his music. It seems the conversation is over.

'Edward's always been a little shy,' Elizabeth says fondly. I nod and hang Edward's chart on the end of his bed.

'I'll be back tomorrow to check on you both. If you need anything during the night ring for one of the nurses. It may take some time but someone will be round eventually.' I shrug helplessly.

'Don't worry, we understand how difficult it must be for you, working here day in and day out. I'm sure we'll be fine. You should get some rest yourself, Doctor Cullen. You're looking dreadfully pale.'

There is an odd note in her voice as she says this and I turn to look at her. Her expression doesn't give anything away but her eyes hold some sort of glint which I find hard to define. I try to pretend I have not noticed anything amiss but a slight uneasiness is stealing through me as I walk away.

She can't know. There is no way anybody can. I have always been careful, so very careful. Apart from that slight error when I put my hand on her shoulder. But she can't have deduced me from that, surely? An irrational panic takes hold of me. If she says anything... yes, she is unlikely to be believed but I know how rumors can circulate especially in a crowded hospital. And a time such as this...

I do not want to leave Chicago. I like it here and I could still have a good five years left before I have to move.

By the end of the day I have decided that I am being irrational. I shall keep up appearances as usual and hope that Elizabeth Masen did not mean anything more than what she said and was simply genuinely concerned for me.

14th June 1918

'How old is Edward?' I ask quietly as I sit by Elizabeth Masen's bedside, holding a cool flannel over her forehead to try and calm her fever. Edward is asleep in the next bed, his breathing raspy and labored.

'Seventeen. He'll be eighteen on the twentieth of this month,' she replies before agony fogs her eyes as she realizes that he probably won't live to see his birthday. Her condition has deteriorated quickly and she is very close to the end. I estimate that she probably has only hours left. _The Chokes_ is a fast-acting strain, once the first symptoms exhibit themselves the victim usually dies within a few weeks, a month at best. Elizabeth's dark brown hair is matted with sweat, her eyes are overly bright and her breathing comes in harsh, shallow spurts. Already I can see and smell the tell-tale drops of blood on her blanket and blouse. She grips at my hand although her strength has all but deserted her.

'You should go and see your other patients,' she murmurs.

'I can spare you some time,' I respond. It is true. Although my rounds are as full as ever, I have to accept the fact that most of the time there is very little I can do. I settle for providing pain relief as and when necessary.

'I know I don't have long,' she gasps out through a sudden fit of coughing. Tenderly I support her head until it passes and then lower her back down to the pillow. She turns her tired gaze over to her son. 'He's too young,' she whispers, tears starting to form in her eyes. 'He has so much to accomplish.'

'I agree,' I murmur. 'He seems a remarkable young man.'

'Save him,' she says suddenly, her grip on my hand becoming perceptibly tighter. By now she must have surely noticed the chill emanating from my skin but if she has, she doesn't mention it. I am certainly not going to. I sigh deeply. This is always the worst part and with these two it is going to be harder than usual. Despite myself I have grown attached, yet again. It is part of my nature and I guess my self-enforced exile from company has contributed as well.

'You know I can't,' I say quietly, compassionately. 'There is nothing anybody can do now. For you or for Edward.'

The tears fall freely from her eyes now and her breathing stutters. I place my fingers to her wrist, suddenly alarmed. She is closer than I thought. She has minutes, not hours.

'Save him,' she commands again, her voice weak. An ache starts up, deep in my chest.

'Elizabeth, I...'

'You must do everything in _your_ power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward.' Her eyes drift closed. I sit beside her, frozen into an unnatural stillness. If anybody had been paying attention to me they would surely have noticed that I did not breathe or blink for at least a minute.

The emotions come thick and fast. Panic. Confusion. Incredulity. Panic. Worry. Did she mean what I think she meant? Again the unanswerable question: _How does she know?_ Now that I think about it she is very perceptive, a trait she has clearly passed down to her son. Over the past few days while I have been treating them I have learnt a lot about Elizabeth and Edward. Such as Edward being desperate to join the army when he reaches eighteen, although he is severely loath to leave his mother. Seeing the two interact I can easily see that Edward is the centre of Elizabeth's world as she is his. Although he was naturally saddened by his father's death it is obvious that there was never the same connection between them. Elizabeth mentioned yesterday that Edward Senior was out of town a lot, on his business as a lawyer. They are so similar in so many ways. Didn't I have the sense when I first met them that Edward was actually seeing _me_? And now his mother has certainly discovered my secret.

Upon coming back to some semblance of reality, I notice that Elizabeth's eyes are once more open and fixed anxiously on my face. There is no fear in her expression, no disgust or revulsion that she is being treated by a monster. She forces her lips into a smile, there is no disguising the hope and warmth in her eyes.

'Please,' she whispers. 'Please, Doctor Cullen. Do this for me. Do it for _him_. He _must_ live.' I find I cannot argue. My mind is blank with shock.

'Yes,' I eventually murmur, hardly aware I am doing so. I just want her to pass from this world in peace, not torment. 'Yes, I will.'

Her tormented expression clears and a tranquil smile graces her lips. 'Thank you,' she breathes. Her heart pounds and stutters a few times more and then shudderingly falls deafeningly silent.

In the bed next to us there is movement and I move swiftly over to find Edward stirring in his blankets. He coughs several times upon waking and the blood froths at his lips. I wipe it calmly away with a handkerchief and hold out his water glass silently. He heaves himself up in the bed and takes the glass with shaking hands, drinking jerkily. When he is finished he sinks back into the pillows.

'Thank you,' he says quietly, glancing over at his mother as I put the glass back on the side. I stay still, knowing that this intelligent young man will certainly almost immediately see that his mother is not breathing. There is no need for me to point it out.

His harsh breathing quickens and one hand rises up from the blankets to clutch at his hair, almost in abject panic.

'Mom?' he whispers questioningly, as though desperately hoping there is a plausible explanation for why Elizabeth is lying so still and silent. 'Mom?' This time the word is louder as though his mother is simply asleep and has not heard him.

Suddenly, in a movement that surprises even me, his long legs are tangling themselves in the blankets in his efforts to get out of the bed in his weakened state. I reach out, not to stop him, but to aid his attempts to get rid of the covers. Swiftly, maybe too fast but he is in no state to notice, I move around the bed, standing by his side in case he needs support.

He fumbles the few steps to his mother and searches her face. Thank goodness she died with her eyes closed, I think vaguely. Touching her shoulder he shakes her a little, his respiration hurried and panicked.

'Mom!'

I stay silent, knowing that he will have to work through this in his own time. Anything I say will not make any difference to the fact he has just lost everything. Tears course silently down his cheeks, each one sparkling and exquisitely intricate to my unparalleled sight.

His hand has dropped from his mother now and his shoulders are slumped, devastation and agony evident in every inch of his posture. He is shaking violently and abruptly tilts sideways as his strength deserts him. I am there to catch him and he rests against my side for a moment, his frail fingers digging into the material of my doctor's coat.

Quickly, due to the fact that soon he is going to feel cold thanks to my icy skin, I scoop him up in my arms with no more trouble than if he were a baby. The fact is that he could weigh three-hundred-pounds and I'd still be able to carry him without any strain. Gently I lay him back on the bed and smooth my cool hand over his fevered brow, brushing back the strands of sweat-dampened russet hair.

Elizabeth is right. He does not deserve to die, not this young, not when he could do so much. He is close to death already and within a few days will surely follow his mother. I stand by his bedside, paralysed in an agony of indecision. He has curled away from me and is huddled in his blankets, his knees drawn up to his chest, tears soaking into the pillow.

'Why her?' he croaks eventually. I blink and look down to find he is staring at me. 'Out of everybody, why her?'

'Because God can be cruel,' I respond honestly. 'It makes no sense, I know that. And I'm not going to say there must be a reason because sometimes, maybe there isn't.'

'This is hell,' he murmurs, staring around at the crowded ward, full of dying and dead people. 'I just want it all to stop.'

There is nothing I can say to this. 'Do you want to say goodbye?' I ask gently. Elizabeth will need to be removed soon, her bed will be needed. A nurse has already taken note of the fact that she has passed away.

He shakes his head. 'It won't make any difference.'

Leaning down slightly I squeeze his shoulder comfortingly before heading off to continue my never-ending rounds. Even in that touch, and when I had him in my arms, I can feel how much weight he has lost. His naturally lanky frame has become almost skeletal, his vivid eyes sunken deep into his face. Such horrific changes are awful to see, especially when I think of how he looked when he arrived. Tired and sad but still healthy. His bronze hair full of life and his eyes alive.

This is more than I can stand.

15th June 1918

The sun is shining brightly, making it impossible for me to go to work today. I send a message saying that I am feeling exhausted but make sure to stress that I have not caught the virus.

If I am honest, this day is a blessing. I need some peace and quiet to make up my mind about what to do concerning Edward Masen. There are many positives to him becoming like me. He will get a chance at living again. He will have as much time as he needs to achieve his dreams, whether it be becoming a classical pianist or something else. I will have kept my promise to Elizabeth Masen in ensuring her son's survival, in one way or another.

But against all these is the one overwhelming negative that I am not sure I can get past. I would make him like _me_. I, who have always thought of myself as cursed. I did not have a choice, am I really so morally deadened now as to take Edward's choice away from him? Added to that is the fact that I have never made another vampire before. I know in theory how it is done, have even seen it in Volterra. And the sight terrified me.

Very often the vampire doing the changing had to be dragged off the terrified human by others and even they were having to work to control their bloodlust. It tormented me and very soon I began excusing myself from the room when a turning was planned. Not because I had any trouble controlling my own thirst, but because I could not stand to see the excruciating agony on the faces of the humans, nor hear their agonised screams. And I have never been tested. I can resist the smell of human blood, yes, but I have never tasted it. How can I be sure I won't kill Edward?

That problem may be overcome by the fact that even if I _do_ kill him, he would have been dead in a few days anyway. And yet there is another obstacle. I have seen newborns in Italy. Wild. Uncontrollable. Filled with an unquenchable thirst for at least six months. They acted like animals. How can I turn quiet, shy, soft-spoken Edward Masen into _that_?

And yet one thought pulses through my mind, always there, but usually pushed into the background. Now it rears its head and once more I have to acknowledge it. My loneliness. My complete isolation from any company other than the few words I exchange with my co-workers. Since the outbreak of course any nights down at the bar have been forgotten and so I do not even have the luxury of occasionally going out to spend some time with the other doctors.

This house is so empty, so lifeless. There is no personality to it, no voices because I can hardly talk to myself. It is a shell containing a few items of furniture and hundreds of books.

For once I do not distract myself with reading or hunting. Instead I sit in the virtually empty room with the chaise in the middle and stare out of the windows at the sky. The sun moves around slowly and a shaft of light beams through the glass and lights upon my frozen torso. Glancing down at my hand I can see the twinkling, multi-faceted, multi-colored evidence of my condition.

It is selfish of me, incredibly selfish, but I long to have somebody to share my life with. A companion and Edward is just what I need. I already feel a strong paternal instinct towards him, is it too much to hope that maybe in time he might come to regard me as a father? Or if that is too presumptuous I would easily settle for close friend.

The sun moves ever onward in its orbit, the day turning to night, and still I sit and think. I think harder than I have ever done before.

16th June 1918

Luckily today is once again overcast and I leave for work early in the morning. I am desperate to reach the hospital and see how Edward is. I have not been able to make a decision either way and hope that seeing him again might help make up my mind.

However as soon as I clock in I am inundated with a ton of new patients and consequently do not make it to his bedside until late at night, by which time I am nearly out of my mind with anxiety. What if I am too late? What if he has already gone?

I am not too late, but a decision is needed and needed quickly. His face is ashen and paler than I have ever seen it apart from two spots of high color on his cheeks. His eyes are closed and his breathing is incredibly irregular. The blood on his lips and blankets is fresh, indicating a recent coughing fit.

It is ten o'clock in the evening. At this time the chaotic bustle has slowed a little and there are fewer doctors dashing about. If I am going to do this I will need to be fast, silent and as unobtrusive as possible.

For a few minutes I judge his heartbeat. As a vampire I can hear it clearly but I know that human senses are much duller than mine. A human would probably have difficulty detecting that he is breathing at all without the aid of a stethoscope. And besides, who would be looking closely? Dead bodies have become incredibly common in the past few months and the death toll is still rising steadily. No doubt a nurse would give him no more than a cursory glance. And of course I have my reputation as one of the best doctors to fall back on. It is unlikely anybody wouldn't believe me if I said he was dead.

I glance at the bed beside Edward's which now contains a sleeping girl, probably in her late twenties, yet all I can see is Elizabeth and I hear her final words.

_You must do everything in _your_ power. What others cannot do, that is what you must do for my Edward._

And my whispered promise in return.

_Yes. Yes, I will._

Even as I make my decision, guilt floods through me. Guilt and an overwhelming sense of selfishness. I draw a blanket over Edward's face, hoping desperately he will still be able to breathe through it. A nurse is making her way down the ward, clutching a clipboard. I step over to her and gesture to Edward's bed.

'He's gone. I'll need the paperwork. I'll take him to the morgue, you don't have to worry. I'm sure you've got enough on your mind.'

As I thought she merely glances over and sighs heavily. 'Another one. I'll need more forms at this rate. Here,' she hands a sheet of paper to me. 'Shall I tell Doctor Wright you've taken him?'

'No need. The paperwork will be filled out and he has work to do.'

'As do we all. You go ahead, Doctor Cullen.'

She moves off down the Ward, occasionally checking on a patient and eventually disappears. Anxiously I check the clock. Quarter past ten. I'll need to hurry. There is a side door which is rarely used at the other end of the ward and down the outside corridor. That is where I will go. Judging by the time I shouldn't encounter anyone and of course I will be moving at my full speed. I just hope that it is enough.

Swiftly I move back to Edward, wrap the blankets more securely around him and lift him into my arms. His head lolls back over my arm as I speed down the ward, blurring past the beds in less than two seconds.

In another three seconds I am at the door leading outside. Nobody has seen me. The streets speed past as I run back home, Edward's body cradled tightly against my chest so as not to jolt him too much or cause him any unnecessary pain.

In no time at all we have reached the house. I rush Edward into the room with the chaise, just because he needs somewhere to lie down. And then I freeze. Am I really going to go through with this? This will technically make me a murderer, although I am giving Edward life at the same time when he has no possibility of it without my intervention.

I glance at the clock. It is twenty five minutes past ten. I took a longer route home due the fact that I wanted to avoid anybody still out on the streets. If I am going to do this, I need to do it _now_.

Hesitantly I step forwards. Edward is deeply unconscious and his heartbeat is even fainter. His waxy face is shining with sweat. Kneeling beside the chaise I run a hand through his tangled, damp hair and bite at my lip.

'Forgive me,' I murmur softly as I lean in and place my teeth against his jugular. His pulse is weak but still ever so tempting. Swiftly, before I can second-guess myself once again, I bite down.

The stream of blood hits the back of my throat and tingles on my tongue like the sweetest nectar I have ever tasted. Every impulse in me is screaming to swallow, but I hold on. I do not draw Edward's blood into me. I have lasted over two centuries without doing so and I _will not_ do so now. Instead I hold my teeth at the wound in his neck, allowing my venom to mingle with his blood. Allowing it to be carried back into his body.

Dimly I am aware that Edward is crying out in pain, his ravaged torso spasming under my clenching fingers, but I hold on. After a few more seconds I am sure I have given him enough venom. But pulling away is torture. Agony. That taste on my tongue... it is beyond anything I have ever experienced.

Edward thrashes under my grasp and that jolts me back to my senses. I tear myself away from his neck, his blood pours out from where I have held it at the back of my throat and splatters on the floor. My right hand comes flying up to my mouth and I bite down, hard. The pain distracts me from my desire and I close my eyes and lower my head.

But I cannot stay like this. The wound on Edward's neck is still leaking out blood and I need to close it off. Swiftly I run my tongue over the puncture marks, my venom effectively sealing the skin, preventing any more bloodloss. His screams still haven't abated, if anything they are rising in pitch. It is lucky indeed that I have such an isolated house, no neighbors to wonder what is going on.

The sight of it is agony, as I knew it would be. How can I endure his suffering, knowing that I am the one who caused it?

Slowly I rise to my feet and run a hand over his tortured face. His eyes are blown wide open but I do not think they see anything in this world.

'I am so sorry,' I whisper brokenly. 'Please forgive me, Edward. I did what I thought was best. Forgive me.'

Hastily I remove myself to what passes as my bedroom which contains a wardrobe full of clothes and not much else. I strip in less than three seconds, tossing my soiled clothing into a corner and pull on a clean pair of pants, a crisp white shirt, pale yellow waistcoat and dark jacket.

Barefoot I move to the bathroom and run the tap of the bath. There is a small raggedy towel hanging on a rail and I soak it before wringing it out into a metal bucket standing in the corner. I think for a second and then fill the bucket to the brim with cold water, switch off the tap and carry the bucket and the damp towel downstairs.

Returning to Edward I get to work, gently wiping the residual blood off his face and the now livid marks on his neck. The floor requires a little more time but soon enough the room no longer resembles a place where a savage murder has been committed.

There is no need for me to monitor Edward's vitals via my stethoscope. I can hear his heartbeat as loudly as if somebody was pounding on a drum with all their strength right next to my ear. It is aggressive and violent. Edward's body is putting up a desperate fight against the power of my venom. But it is useless. Just like the _The Chokes_, my venom will win out over his immune system in the end. Three days, to be precise.

I do the calculation instantly. The nineteenth of June. That is when the transformation will be complete. He would have been eighteen the day after and for some reason that knowledge makes me unbearably sad.

In all this time he has not stopped screaming. His body is contorted on the chaise, the cords in his neck standing out like taut ropes. I take a few steps back and sink to the floor against the wall. I would like nothing more than to run out of this house and far away until I do not have to hear the sounds of his suffering. But this is my punishment, my penance. Every time he screams it is as though a burning brand has been pressed against my unbeating heart, leaving an indelible reminder of the pain I have caused.

**Next update will be from Carlisle's point of view again, but we shall soon be hearing from Esme... Reviews?**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I think I do have to say to anybody reading this that the updates are going to be a little unpredictable in terms of timing. I have a few other projects which need finishing (for some reason I just cannot get myself into the habit of actually finishing something **_**before**_** I post it online).What I do promise is to continue to write this and upload as often as I am able. I hope you like this installment.**

**Chapter Nine**

**Carlisle's POV**

**19****th**** June 1918**

I have not left the house, I have not even left this room. If this works it is likely I am going to be moving swiftly from Chicago anyway so there is not much point in even notifying the hospital why I am absent. They will probably assume I have gone down with the flu.

All I have heard over the past three days are Edward's continual groans and shrieks of pain. I know I will never be able to forget them. The guilt is always there but every time he screams it floods over me afresh. _Why_ did I do this? The most selfish thing I have ever done? I have condemned an innocent boy to a life of constant and continual thirst and the only thing I have to offer him in return is the opportunity to feed off animals rather than humans.

My thoughts torture me and one of the most prominent is that the procedure didn't work. That I have done something wrong. It is fast approaching ten o'clock in the evening. I should be able to hear his heart stuttering its last as the venom wins the final battle. But his heartbeat is pounding along as panicked as ever. Maybe I didn't inject enough venom. Maybe some medicine I put him on at the hospital affects the results. And, although the thought is irrational, maybe I have put him in limbo. Half dead, half alive. Not a vampire but not quite human either. Condemned to live in this agony forever.

My head sinks into my hands and I tousle my hair with my fingers, tugging at the roots. This suspense, I cannot stand it for much longer. Again I offer him my whispered repentance.

'I am sorry, Edward. God, if this hasn't worked... even if it _has_... I am so sorry. I just wanted to offer you a life but...' the words trail off. There is nothing I can say. He probably cannot even hear me. It has not stopped me from keeping up a constant litany of apologies, however. It seems like the very least I can do.

The hand on the clock crawls past the quarter hour. I find myself tapping a rhythm on the floorboards, a very human exhibition of impatience and worry, but something I have picked up over the many years I have spent pretending to be a mortal.

And then, a few minutes later, something changes. To be more precise, Edward's heartbeat. It stutters momentarily and then begins pounding even faster. I jerk my head from my hands, my eyes wide as I fix my gaze on the body lying on the chaise. His limbs are jerking frantically, and his screams grow even louder and more tormented if that is possible. This is it.

Silence. That is all I notice at first. No more screaming and no more thudding heartbeat. Edward lies still on the chaise. Carefully I raise myself off the floor and take a step forward. It is incredible. I can see the change happening right before my eyes. Edward's hair is growing lustrous and shiny once again, more so even than when he was human. His ashen skin starts to fade slowly to a snowy, dazzling white. The sunken hollows of his cheeks fill out and sculpted cheekbones appear. The lips become fuller and plump, flushed slightly pink. Glancing down at the rest of him I can see that no longer does he look skeletal. He is still lanky, that is true, but there is weight and muscle that was not there before.

I return my gaze to his face and catch my breath slightly. He is beautiful. All the tiny little imperfections have been smoothed out almost like a wave breaking on the sand and washing it even. His thick, tousled auburn hair provides a stark contrast to his icy white skin.

And then his eyes open and I take an automatic step backward. It has been so long since I have seen eyes like that. Deep and crimson and filled with a fire and a hunger for blood. Backing away I place myself against the wall, wishing to make myself less of a threat. I know from experience that newborns are naturally confused and aggressive when they first awaken to this new life and I do not wish to become the target of Edward's anger.

He doesn't speak. Instead he moves himself into a sitting position. The movement is fluid and impossibly quick. If a human had seen it they would have sworn they hadn't seen him move at all.

'Edward?' I say tentatively, not wanting to startle him but at the same time needing to reassure him that he is not alone. His head snaps to the side to gaze at where I am standing. I keep my posture open and unthreatening, hands hanging by my sides. He shakes his head slightly, panic and confusion evident in his expression.

'Where am I?' he asks, his voice no longer hoarse but beautiful and rich. His eyes become wider as he hears the sound, so unlike his human tones.

'You're at my house. Do you remember me, Edward?'

He gazes around at the room, no doubt experiencing the wonder of seeing every tiny detail that is forbidden to humans before his eyes land on me again.

'Doctor Cullen,' he murmurs. 'Why am I here? What is going on? There's this voice in my head... I cannot get rid of it...'

I frown in concern. A voice in his head? That isn't natural, surely? I search back through my memories of being a newborn. No, I did not experience that.

'It's alright, Edward.' I settle for a pacifying tone but panic is coursing through me. Something _did_ go wrong after all. What have I doomed him to?

'Doomed?' he asks, puzzled. 'You haven't doomed me to anything, Doctor Cullen. Why am I at your house? What happened?' He shakes his head again as if trying to clear it and presses his hands tightly against his temples.

Once again I am completely stunned. I did not say the word doomed aloud.

'Yes, you did,' he responds slightly irritably. 'I heard you.'

Cautiously I take a step forwards. 'Edward, listen to me carefully.' I have an idea in my mind as to what is happening but I need to test it, as ridiculous as it seems. _Can you hear this?_ He is watching me as the thought crosses my mind, he sees that my lips do not move at all. Those brilliant crimson eyes widen even more with panic and shock.

'I have gone mad. I have finally gone mad,' he whispers to himself, hugging his knees to his chest. 'Doctor Cullen, I can hear you but... but you're not speaking!'

A mind reader. Awe overtakes me. I have of course been privy to certain talents amongst vampires before but this is something completely new. I should have known his human perception might have carried on into this life.

Quick as a flash he has risen from the chaise and has taken a few blindingly fast steps towards me. He freezes, apparently terrified at how quickly he has moved. I do not blame him.

'Vampires?' he asks, his tone laced with scorn and bewilderment. 'Doctor Cullen, _what is going on_?'

'I do not quite know how to say this, Edward,' I start, my mind racing. 'Maybe you should sit back down?'

He glares at me but does as I ask.

'There is no easy way for me to tell you this. You are immortal now, Edward. For lack of a better word, you are a vampire. As am I. I turned you three days ago when I took you from the hospital. Do you remember the hospital, Edward?' I know that human memories almost immediately fade into fog for vampires and it seems this is indeed the case. Edward frowns deeply.

'I... I remember my mother. And you. You were there. My mother...' his voice falters. '... is she like me? Is she alive?'

I rake a hand through my hair. 'No. Your mother is dead, Edward. I'm very sorry. But she asked me to save you. And I did, to a certain extent. You are a vampire, Edward. You will not grow old or die from any natural causes. I did this to you and for that I beg your forgiveness, although I will understand if you do not choose to give it.'

Aware now of his ability, but not wishing to overload him, I think of all that happened at the hospital, from his mother's deathbed wish to him being here talking to me.

Suddenly he is flying at me from the chaise and his hands are wrapped around my throat, pressing me back against the wall. I wince but hold still, even though his newborn strength is in danger of cracking my granite skin.

'_You_ did this to me! You made me into a _monster_! A vampire... I didn't even believe or think they existed!'

'I'm so very sorry, Edward,' I manage to choke out over the pain. 'I wanted to give you another chance. So did your mother. That's why she asked me to change you.'

The agony is clouding my senses and presumably Edward senses this because he takes a few steps back with a horrified expression on his face.

'And you... you took what she said to mean _this_?'

I nod miserably, unable to meet his gaze. 'Would you let me explain?' I ask quietly.

'It had better be good,' he growls, his eyes narrowing as he takes a seat back on the chaise. I rub my hands over my throat briefly before speaking.

'You were so alive, Edward. When you arrived at the hospital I instantly formed a connection with you, despite the fact that I try desperately not to form attachments. Not just with you, but with your mother. Over the time I attended to you both I learnt more and more about you. About your incredible intelligence and sensitivity. About your skill in playing the piano and wanting to join the army when you turned eighteen. To know that you and your mother were dying was almost more than I could stand. Your mother guessed at my secret. She knew what I was. I was stunned. She asked me to save you. Yet of course I had my reservations. I tormented myself for days in an agony of indecision. If I turned you I could give you another chance at life, another chance to fulfill your potential. I would keep my promise to your mother. And yet on the other hand I was damning you to eternal life without your permission. You didn't have a choice, just like me.' I lower my eyes from his in shame. 'I am no better than my creator.'

My own dim human memories flood my mind. An unknown, red-eyed monster in the dark of a stinking alley. Myself and my best friend Thomas, armed with pathetic stakes of wood, which I now know will do no more damage than a twig against a rock. A ripping, unbearable pain at my neck. Unconsciously I move my hand upwards to my high collar. I always keep the mark hidden. Always.

I am fully expecting Edward to attack again. Instead he steps forward.

'Show me,' he demands. I am confused, show him what? 'Your mark. Show me.'

I am about to automatically decline his request. It is something deeply personal to me, something I am desperately ashamed of. Yet something makes me draw down my collar to expose the pale skin to his gaze. He looks at it closely for a few seconds.

'Show me mine.'

'Give me a moment,' I murmur, not entirely sure what is going on. Although I do not wish to leave him alone it takes me only a few moments to dart upstairs and collect the cracked mirror I keep in the bathroom. I hold it out to him and he takes it, examining the identical neat puncture marks at his neck.

Without a word he hands the mirror back to me.

'Edward?' I say, laying the mirror carefully on the floor before rising to face him once again. 'I am so sorry. I...'

'Stop. Just stop, a minute. You forget I can hear all your thoughts. I know what this did to you, Doctor Cullen. I have seen the agony you went through. I know you did what you thought was right. I know you also changed me out of your own sense of loneliness.' I lower my eyes, ashamed. 'But you are not like your creator. I know nothing of such things but even I can see the difference between your mark and mine. And there is also the slightly telling fact that you are _here_, explaining things to me. You never had that.' I shake my head slowly, hardly daring to believe that I might actually, in time, earn his forgiveness.

'Maybe,' he responds wryly. 'A good start would be knowing your first name.'

I lift my tawny gaze to his crimson one. 'Carlisle,' I say. 'Carlisle Cullen.'

'Carlisle,' he repeats to himself and then he smiles slightly at me. 'It suits you.' He remains silent for a few moments and then his hand moves to his throat, massaging the skin. 'I... I feel strange. I feel thirsty...' His voice trails off as his brain catches up to what this might mean. I hasten to reassure him.

'You need blood. But from the instant I was changed I knew I didn't want to live as a monster. I discovered I could survive on animal blood. You do not have to be a murderer, like me. You can make a choice. I can show you.'

He frowns at the use of the word murderer but does not acknowledge it. 'Show me,' he says firmly.

**20****th**** June 1918**

Today would be Edward's eighteenth birthday. Instead he is frozen forever at seventeen, thanks to me.

'Stop that,' Edward's voice rings out from across the room. He is reclining on what has become _his_ chaise, his eyes closed. 'It's truly annoying, hearing you beating yourself up all the time.'

'My apologies,' I respond, attempting to shut off my thoughts. It proves impossible. He sighs and twists to face me.

'Carlisle. Do not think for a moment that I have forgiven you, because I have not, but you have to know that I do understand why you did this to me. I have seen enough of your thought processes over the last few hours.'

I nod in acknowledgement and there is silence for a few minutes. 'Do you feel like hunting? The more practiced you are at it, the easier it becomes.'

He stretches languidly on the chaise. 'Carlisle. I am _always_ thirsty. Lead the way.'

A few hours later we have finished our hunt. As usual my clothing is pristine while Edward looks ruefully at his ruined shirt and pants. I laugh softly.

'Try not to worry. I can pick up some more clothes for you in town.'

He nods but I can see he is annoyed with himself. 'I just want to be able to _do_ this,' he bursts out. 'I feel so tormented all the time now with what _this_ is, what I have been reduced to. Living off animals like a beast. If I am condemned to be a vampire I at least want to be good at it.'

I wince internally and he sighs.

'Oh, that's not what I meant, Carlisle.' He takes a step towards me and places a blood-stained hand on my shoulder. 'I do not mean to hurt you. But you know what you have done. You have to allow me time to come to terms with it. You owe me that much.'

I nod, unable to deny his logical words. It is more than I hoped for. And the topic allows me to say something which I have been thinking about for awhile, but always when away from Edward.

'We should be looking at places to move to. We cannot stay here. I have been absent from the hospital for too long and my continued presence in town is causing questions. We need a more isolated place so that you cannot be tempted by the scent of human blood.'

Edward huffs in annoyance. 'I do not see what is so different about the smell of human blood to that of an animal. Why is it so dangerous?'

My eyes turn sad as I fill my mind with the remembrances of all the human scents I have encountered over the decades and also the taste of Edward's blood while I turned him.

He stares at me and his eyes flash with a sudden thirst and fire. Unconsciously he licks his lips and tenses into a crouch.

'You see?' I say softly. 'It is quite the comparison. Tell me you would not be able to resist that.'

He relaxes at the sound of my voice and clutches at his hair. 'I wouldn't. That... how can you _stand_ that Carlisle? You're a doctor! You work around injured people all the time. All that blood...' His tone is awed and almost reverent. I feel sick hearing it.

'I am nothing special,' I mutter, more filled with guilt than ever.

In a flash he is beside me, gripping tightly onto my arm. I wince, he has yet to fully understand his strength. As soon as the thought crosses my mind he loosens his hold but does not relinquish it fully.

'Stop it,' he whispers harshly to me. 'Stop bringing yourself down all the time. I may not have many memories left from my human life but I know that you were the person to make mother smile for the first time since father got sick. I know you were the doctor who cared for us and tried to make us as comfortable as possible. You were the one who listened to me when I told you I liked to play the piano and said you enjoyed classical music. You, who cared deeply for my mother and myself when nobody else was there.' He stops and takes a step back. 'Do you even know what I see when I read your mind, Carlisle?'

I shake my head, beyond words.

'I see purity. You are so _goddamn_ pure, Carlisle.' I flinch as the expletive leaves his mouth and he smiles grimly. 'You see? For some reason you are hanging on to the idea that a God does exist and that only makes you more incredible. You may think you changed me for selfish reasons and maybe that's true. But all I see is you tormenting yourself over that and that alone. You do not see how truly _good_ you are, Carlisle. I know now how much it cost you to change me. I do not blame you for it anymore. How can I, when I have seen your every thought and found almost nothing to censure?' His tone becomes almost inaudible. 'I heard you when I was in the midst of the turning. I heard your voice.'

'You did?' I ask, intrigued despite myself.

'Yes. I think you apologized near to a thousand times. I tried to keep count, you know. Your voice distracted me from the pain.'

I do not have any words to reply. All I can think of is how unworthy I am of his praise. I am a monster. Truly.

'Come, Carlisle.' Edward's voice is soft. 'If you are a monster then I am one too. Do you honestly believe that of me?'

'No,' I reply quietly. 'You could never be a monster, Edward.'

'You think too much of me,' he responds with a wry smile. 'But there we have it. If you believe yourself to be one then that makes me one too. It's logical.'

'You did not kill someone and make them like you,' I argue back. 'You are not a murderer.'

'I would have died anyway,' he responds bluntly. 'I'm not saying that this life is to my satisfaction. In many ways I would rather have died of the influenza. But I appreciate your intentions and I am determined to make the best of this new life.' He smiles suddenly at me, something that is all too rare for him. 'And to start, I am going to race you back to the house. At least that is something in which I am superior to you.'

**25****th**** June 1918**

'Ashland,' Edward announces, blowing into the room that has become my study. I lift my head from my book.

'Ashland, Wisconsin?' I query, searching my geography. Edward rolls his eyes.

'Do you know any other Ashland?' he snipes. Without waiting for my reply he continues. 'It's a small town, fairly isolated. I figure there I can come to terms with my thirst and you can still be near a functioning hospital.'

Moving swiftly I pull the atlas from my shelves and open it to the appropriate page. Edward comes to stand beside me and quickly points it out with his finger.

'You see? Plenty of open space. Of course we would not be in the town itself but just outside, close enough for the occasional visit in order to purchase clothes and soap and such things. Not food. Obviously.'

He flashes me an endearing smile and I return it, stretching back in my chair. 'Well, it seems it is decided. I shall start making the preparations. Does a week suit? I'll need to hand in my resignation at the hospital and I also need to file your death certificate.' He flinches back slightly and I immediately feel terrible.

'I'm sorry, Edward. That was incredibly tactless of me.'

He attempts a careless shrug but I can see his is still bothered by my remark. 'It's forgotten. Yes, a week sounds fine.' He turns to go but hesitates by the door. I may not be a mind reader but I know he wishes to ask me something.

'What is it?'

'I was wondering if you could pick some sheet music up for me next time you're in town? I don't like to ask and...' he looks awkward, 'if money's a problem then of course...'

I get to my feet, horrified. 'Of course I'll pick music up for you. As much as you like. I can't believe I have been so selfish. Anything you need or want from now on, just say the word.'

'Thank you, Carlisle,' he murmurs and leaves the room. I sink back down into the chair, putting my head in my hands. Edward has been closeted away in this house for almost a week now with no distractions except hunting and I hadn't even thought of it.

_It's probably a good thing I was never a father_ I think dismally. _I would probably have forgotten to even feed the child_.

From downstairs I hear Edward's bark of laughter and smile.

**1****st**** July 1918**

'Edward! Stop!' My panicked cry rings through the forest, reverberating off the trunks of the trees, as I hurtle forwards on the trail Edward has left behind him.

Just a few minutes ago everything was going so smoothly. I had just finished draining my third deer and Edward was busy with his own meal. Then, abruptly, everything changed. Edward's head snapped to the right and suddenly he was gone, disappearing from the clearing in which we stood faster than a blink.

For the briefest second I stood puzzled until the scent hit me. That sweet, appetising, _luxurious_ scent. Almost impossible to resist. The venom had automatically pooled in my mouth even as my eyes widened with horror. A human. A hiker presumably. Away to the west. Not far away at all and oblivious to his danger descending on him.

'Edward!' I scream again, losing all decorum, panic pulsing through me in waves even as I dart amongst the trees and leap ditches. He is impossibly fast, even for a newborn. I will never catch him in time. 'Stop, Edward!'

The scent of blood grows stronger and I feel my nature reacting instinctively to it. A growl threatens to bubble through my lips. I cannot let myself become a hunter. I have to keep control of my faculties and find Edward before he does something he will deeply regret forever.

Speeding through a thick clutch of young trees I emerge suddenly into an airy clearing, unexpected after the dense cover of the rest of the forest. Edward is over to my left, bent over with his back to me, close to the ground. My eyes take in the scene instantly. Legs, sprawled on the ground, clad in dark green hunting pants. The merest sliver of a grey shirt tucked into the waistband. Edward is blocking the rest of my view, the man is clearly ensnared in his arms. Even as I absorb this the smell of blood is overwhelmingly potent.

Aware of the danger, but doing so nonetheless, I dart over to him and attempt to pull him away from the hiker. I can still hear the weak heartbeat, the man is not dead yet.

'Edward, stop,' I plead. 'Stop.'

A vicious snarl echoes around the clearing and suddenly Edward is on his feet, his hand reaching for my throat. With the strength that only a newborn can possess his palm hits my neck, sending me spinning all the way to the other side of the clearing. My body smashes through the trunks of the trees.

Stunned I pick myself up and return to the clearing. Edward is once more bent over the man's broken body. It is no good. The heartbeat is faltering and finally stops altogether. I hunch over, my head in my hands.

After a few seconds I glance up. Edward is standing, wiping at his mouth almost absently. His eyes are still wild, still immersed in the hunt. I straighten up.

'Edward,' I say quietly. 'Can you hear me?'

Slowly sanity returns to his gaze, and with it, a slow-dawning realization. I watch as he turns to stare at the crumpled, bloodied and lifeless body on the grass behind him.

'Carlisle...' he murmurs before he sinks to the ground. Swiftly I am there, sitting beside him. I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze it tightly.

'It was not your fault,' I say gently. 'The guilt lies with me. I should have examined the area more closely before agreeing to hunt.'

He shakes his head, his brilliantly colored hair waving around his face. 'Don't you _dare_, Carlisle. Don't you dare take the responsibility of this on you.' His gaze shifts away from the corpse on the grass to stare vacantly at the softly waving leaves high above us.

'But it _is_ my fault. Edward, you are not to blame. A newborn's control is scanty at best. With the scent of human blood so close it is only natural you obeyed your instincts. Your rational mind was not involved in making the decision. The fault lies with me for not searching the vicinity and also for not being strong enough to pull you off.'

His crimson eyes darken slightly. 'I... I hurt you...' he mutters.

'No,' I reply quickly. 'It will take more than an encounter with a couple of trees to injure me, Edward. Do not worry about that.'

'How can you _be_ like this?' Edward shouts, his hands plunging deep into the loose earth in frustration. 'How can you be so _understanding_? I just _killed_ somebody!' He freezes and his fingers lose their tension in the mud. 'I'm a monster,' he says dully.

I shift around to face him, both hands clutching at his shoulders. 'You are _not_ a monster, Edward. Yes, what happened is a tragedy. But you must understand that you had no control over your actions.'

'_You_ did,' he whispers harshly. 'Explain that to me, Carlisle. You were a newborn once too. And yet you never spilled a drop of human blood. You didn't even have a guide to help you, as I do in you.' Unbidden, the memories overtake my mind, and Edward watches me intently, his eyes widening. 'You see? You tried to _kill_ yourself before you took human life. You were changed in a densely-populated area and yet you got out of there without killing anybody.' His posture slumps. 'How can I compete with that, Carlisle? I am always going to be a disappointment to you. I couldn't even resist the first time I was tested.'

I pause slightly before replying. 'You're a mind-reader, Edward,' I say.

'You're noticing this _now_?' he quips, a hint of his old humor returning.

'Let me finish. That is your talent, your gift, so to speak. When I was in Volterra there was a theory passed around that the talents of immortals were traits carried over from their human lives. When I met you and got to know you in the hospital I could see you were far more perceptive than many others. Perhaps that particular trait of yours got exemplified, leading to you now being able to read minds.'

'Does this lecture have a point?' he remarks sourly, his gaze downcast once more.

'Indeed it does. What I am trying to say is that in my human life I dimly remember always feeling empathy and kindness for those around me. Maybe my 'power', so to speak, is the ability to feel compassion for others.' I smile wryly. 'It may not be quite as impressive as some, I know. And I also feel that my life as the son of a strict Anglican Pastor might have contributed to my self-control as a vampire. That is possibly the reason why I found it easier to refrain from drinking human blood.' I pause and raise Edward's head with my hand. 'You see? It is a simple matter of genetics.'

Edward remains silent for awhile before he finally gets to his feet, still fluid, still elegant, despite the trauma he has suffered.

'What are we going to do...?' he gestures limply at the body, unable to look directly at it. I smile sympathetically.

'I'll deal with it. I'll bury him here. You go on back to the house.' Swiftly I take a deep inhalation of breath. No human scent at all. 'You'll be fine.'

He nods but does not move. Quietly, not looking at me, he murmurs.

'Thank you for this. For your understanding. I don't know how you can forgive me for something like this but I know that you do. So, thank you, Carlisle.'

And with that he is off, vanished amidst the trees in less than a second.

I smile slightly before my expression becomes heavy, turning my mind to the task of burying the poor hiker. His family, if he has one, will assume he met with an accident in the forest.

Returning to the house I finalise details. My resignation and Edward's death certificate have been duly filed at the hospital. I did not linger there, afraid of probing questions I will not be able to answer.

The hall is filled with boxes and trunks, most of them are of books, although a few contain clothes and items of furniture. They will be sent on ahead of us to Ashland, a porter is coming to collect them this afternoon. I have ordered Edward to stay far away from the house, so that the man's scent does not tempt him.

Slowly I wander through the house, not sad to be saying goodbye to it. Now I have a chance to build a proper home with Edward. I have already arranged for a surprise for him. There is a reknowned piano shop in the immediate vicinity of Ashland and I have paid for a piano to be delivered on our moving date. Music gives Edward so much innocent pleasure and I admit that I long to hear him play. He spends so long poring over sheet music that I am sure his playing is magnificent.

We will be following our luggage tomorrow, on foot. It is too risky for Edward to attempt any kind of public transport right now and at least this way, if he catches a hint of human scent, I will be there to distract him before he can lose himself completely.

**2****nd**** July 1918**

The run from Chicago to Ashland was exhilarating. We plotted our route carefully, leaving in the early hours of the morning so there would be less risk of encountering humans. There was a tricky moment just outside Milwaukee but luckily this time I was there before Edward caught the scent and we were able to continue onwards.

It is now eight o'clock in the morning and we stand in the hallway of our new home. The men I employed to take care of our luggage have left it as instructed against the walls just inside the door. The piano I ordered has been set up in another room and I have been taking great pains to hide this from my thoughts. Strangely I am learning quickly how to block my mind against Edward's talent. He will still occasionally get snippets here and there but I find that thinking intently about the latest medical journals will prove boring enough for him to lose interest.

The early morning sun washes in through the windows and Edward stares at his own skin, as transfixed as he was the first time he saw it. During our first hunting trip he asked me about the various vampire rumors and tales he picked up during his life as a human. Particularly the supposed inability to go out in sunlight. I laughed and told him that it is true sunlight affects us, but not in the way he might think. The first time he saw himself he stood frozen for a long time, staring intently at the glittering reflections thrown out from his very skin.

Stepping forwards now, I gently interrupt his thoughts. 'I took the liberty of purchasing something for you. As a surprise and also as a new-home present.'

He glances at me, puzzled. 'You bought me something? How do I not know about it?'

I laugh lightly. 'You may be understanding your talent more, but so am I. I am beginning to learn how to mask my thoughts around you. Come with me.'

He follows me down the hallway and into the spacious room on the right I intend to make into our living-room. At the moment it is completely empty apart from the elegant, mahogany grand piano standing in one corner near the bay windows. It was not cheap, however over the years I have saved a substantial amount due to the fact that I do not need to spend much in order to live.

I see Edward's crimson eyes widen in shock and delight. He takes a few tentative steps towards it and runs his hand over the highly polished bodywork.

I place my hands behind my back. 'I hope you like it. I do not know much about pianos I am afraid. The man I bought this from says it is the latest model. I thought I ought to make sure you have something to occupy yourself with apart from hunting while you get used to controlling your thirst.'

Edward's pale fingers are now dancing over the keys, occasionally depressing one or two, which fills the empty house with ringing, echoing notes. He sinks down onto the seat and raises his head to look at me. His eyes are full of astonishment and pleasure.

'Carlisle, this is the most perfect gift I have ever received. I have never had an instrument quite like this in my life. The piano I played at home was an ancient thing...' he trails off, painful memories of his human life undoubtedly playing through his mind.

I nod abruptly. 'Good. It's good that you like it. Perhaps sometime I could hear you play?'

'No time like the present,' Edward says happily, jumping up from the stool and darting to collect his sheet music. 'Now, would you prefer Bach or Mozart? Ah, no need to answer. Bach it is. You didn't manage to conceal _that_ from me.'

'I wasn't trying,' I respond, amused.

Edward returns to the piano and rests his fingers on the keys for a moment before starting to play. And it's beautiful.

**3****rd**** July 1918**

The house is finally beginning to take shape. Today I occupy myself with unpacking all the various ornaments and souvenirs I have picked up from all over the world in the course of my long life. Edward watches as I arrange them on shelves in the room which has become my new study.

There is an old-fashioned teak desk in the corner. Atop it I have placed a myriad of elegant fountain pens and thick cream paper. My medical bag sits in a corner and the majority of my books have been duly placed on the bookshelf by the door.

'What is this?' Edward asks, picking up a rectangular parcel carefully wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. I move over to him, take it out of his hands and snap the twine, allowing the paper to fall away. Edward gasps.

'Is... is that an original?'

I nod slowly. 'It was a gift from Aro. Like me he appreciates the arts, although our tastes do differ in many other ways.'

'Aro?' he asks puzzled.

'Ah, I have not told you about my time with the Volturi have I? That was incredibly remiss of me. The Volturi are three vampires who live in Volterra, Italy. They are the closest thing our kind has to a royal family. Together they enforce our laws, with the help of their guard.'

'Laws?' Edward is frowning. 'I did not realize there were laws for vampires.'

'Of course there are,' I respond, moving to hang the painting on the opposite wall and standing back to judge the effect. 'If there were not it would be chaos. The Volturi's job is primarily to prevent humans from ever finding out about our existence. Any vampire who endangers our anonymity is silenced. Permanently.'

'They... kill? But I thought we are immortal.'

'There are ways,' I respond evasively. 'We cannot be killed by any normal human means. And as you have seen, sunlight does not harm us. But fire is lethal. The only way to kill a vampire...' I pause for a second before continuing, 'is to rip them apart and then burn the pieces. That way it is sure that they will not put themselves back together.'

Edward looks horrified. 'Put themselves back together?' he repeats. 'Are you saying that if you removed my hand right now it would reattach itself?'

I laugh slightly. 'Yes, although it would be incredibly painful. Not a pleasant experience in the least.'

Edward takes a seat in the armchair behind the desk. 'I think I need a moment to digest this.'

'Take all the time you need, I know it's a lot to take in.' There is silence for for a few minutes while I try and arrange ornaments to my satisfaction. Finally, Edward speaks again.

'So, we have a royal family. And if any one of us exposes the secret we're executed?' I nod. 'But how do they enforce these rules? I mean, surely there cannot be that many of them.'

'Ah. That is where the guard come in. Aro, Marcus and Caius, they are the three rulers and they surround themselves with a court of vampires who all possess an exceptional power in some way or another. Two of his most dangerous are nicknamed the witch-twins.'

'The witch-twins?'

My expression turns sombre as I nod and move closer to the desk. 'Jane and Alec. They are brother and sister and each possess an extraordinary talent. Together they ensure that the Volturi remain in power.'

Edward is gazing at me, rapt. 'So? What can they do?'

I sigh. 'Alec cuts off senses. Imagine a fog stealing towards you. When it engulfs you, you lose everything. Your sense of smell, sight, hearing... you are rendered immobile, completely in the dark.' Edward looks astounded. 'That is not all. Combined with Jane's power the two are lethal. Jane's gift is more offensive. She can create an illusion of a pain so excruciating that any targeted by it are incapable of doing anything but scream in agony.'

Edward blinks. 'This pain... it's only in your head?'

'Yes, but it feels real.'

Edward's eyes narrow. 'How do you know? Have you felt it?'

I wince, not particularly liking the turn the conversation has taken. 'Yes. I have. It was my own folly. When I arrived in Volterra I was keen to learn everything. I asked Jane for a demonstration of her gift. Suffice to say I never asked again.'

Edward clearly is having trouble absorbing all this information. I perch on the desk and busy myself with flicking through a journal while he thinks in silence.

Eventually he nods and glances up and around the room. By his expression I believe that he has accepted all I have told him but I silently check to make sure, sending the thought clearly through my mind. He looks at me and nods. There is silence for a few more minutes before he stands up and stares critically at the painting now hanging on the wall.

'You know what this place needs?' he asks.

I shake my head.

'A woman's touch.'

The tension is broken as a deep laugh rumbles out from deep in my chest. I am soon joined by Edward's slightly higher chuckle. Gazing around I see what Edward means. There are pictures on the walls and books on the shelves but no curtains at the windows. The floorboards are stunning works of carpenting but there are no cheerful rugs. I sigh and my shoulders slump a little.

'I have never been particularly good at decorating,' I say.

'Me neither. I suppose we'll just have to get used to being two hopeless bachelors.' The words are tinged with sadness and I completely understand why. Unbidden memories of Esme float through my mind and Edward narrows his eyes.

'Who is that?'

I cough and flip the journal closed with a snap. 'Nobody. Are you thirsty? We should probably hunt this evening. See what the country around here offers in terms of game.' I manage to occupy my mind with frenzied thoughts of the latest advances in medicine and tempting images of the Chequamegon National Forest.

Edward shakes his head. 'I am a little thirsty but I want to know and it's no good you filling your head with nonsense.'

I bristle a little, stung into making a reply. 'The latest advances in medicine is not nonsense, Edward!'

'You know what I mean. Who is she? She's clearly important to you otherwise you would not be attempting to change the subject by any means necessary.'

Sighing I realize he is not to be dissuaded and I return to my perch on the desk. 'Her name is Esme Platt, although it may not be now. She may be married.' The thought makes me miserable even though I know that is ridiculous. After all, we met twice and not for longer than a couple of hours each time. 'She lives back in Columbus where I was before I moved to Chicago. About a month before I left for the Windy City I treated her for a broken leg.' Edward is gazing at me, his eyes intent. Slowly I realize that it is good for me to get this out in the open, with no secrets as to why I had to leave. 'She was... one of the most extraordinary girls I have ever met.' I smile remembering her dishevelled appearance when I first saw her and hear Edward chuckle in return, seeing the image in my head. 'For some reason I cannot ever get her out of my head, although it has been near to seven years since we met. She was so young, but there was something about her which captured my attention,' I smile wryly, 'and has held it over all these years.'

'Do you love her?' Edward asks bluntly. I blink.

'No. I do not know her, Edward. We met twice years ago – she was just a girl. People change, after all.'

'We don't,' Edward cuts in, slightly bitterly.

'No,' I agree quietly. 'We don't. Shall we change the subject?'

**11****th**** December 1918**

I watch from the window as Edward ploughs through the snow, an enormous bundle of firewood clutched to his chest. Winter has got Ashland firmly in its grasp and for a few weeks now the surrounding countryside has been blanketed in white. Not that it poses any problems for us. Edward is bounding down the path as if the treacherous icy ground and almost knee-high snow is no trickier than wading through autumn leaves.

The back door clicks open and I can hear his hobnailed boots on the tiled floor of the garden room. We do not need a fire as we cannot get cold. However it makes us both feel more human to have the flickering warmth when night falls and the wind shrieks around the eaves of the house.

There is a bang as the door slams shut and then Edward flashes into the room, shaking his chaotic hair vigorously so that sparkling water droplets fly out in all directions.

'Any problems?' I ask automatically, although I can see clearly that there haven't been. Edward's eyes are now a burnished gold in color, if he had slipped up today they would have been scarlet once again. His last accident was in mid July and his control is getting better and better everyday. We have even made a few trips close to town, just so he can get used to the faint scent of human blood and still keep his senses.

He shakes his head. 'There was a faint trace of someone, perhaps a hiker, but I managed to ignore it.' His tone is calm but I can tell from his glittering eyes that he is proud of himself. _I'm_ proud of him, probably more than he knows.

'This is very good, Edward,' I say warmly. 'Soon I'm sure you will be able to actually go into town. Your control is very much improved.'

He deposits the wood in the basket near the hearth and collapses into the chair next to mine. 'How are things in town?' he asks curiously.

'Everybody's happy about the end of the war,' I reply, picking up a book and flicking through the pages. The war officially came to an end in November and the relief in the faces of the people of Ashland is palpable. Now I see women anxiously awaiting the return of their husbands, brothers and sons.

Edward nods but I can tell from his expression there is still a part of him which regrets not being able to fight for his country. He sighs slightly.

'It is partly that, but I also envy the townspeople sometimes. I mean if they need something they can just stroll into town and buy it. I have to ask you for anything I want and if I even get a hint of a human scent I have to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction before it gets too strong and I kill them. How long is it going to be like this?'

My eyes are sad as I take in his defeated posture, his downturned eyes and slumped shoulders. Cautiously I get out of my chair and move over to him, resting a hand on his back.

'Before too long Edward you will be able to do anything. You just have to be patient. You are doing so well, please do not give up on yourself now.' Although my words are calm there is a tumult in my mind which I have to do my best to drown out so that Edward won't hear. Mainly it is a wrenching guilt, yet again, of the life I have condemned this young man to. Absently, as I move back to my chair and my book, I wonder if this feeling will ever go away.

**25****th**** December 1918**

'You must get pretty tired of continually celebrating Christmas,' Edward remarks as he adjusts the wreath of holly above the fireplace. I sigh and lean back in my chair.

'Sometimes, yes. Christmas is a time for family and love and for years I have had neither in my life. I guess it's just a habit, particularly as it was always an important holiday in my human days.'

'Well, I'm here now so at least you'll have somebody with you from now on.'

I smile slightly, attempting to mask my anxiety. I am not at all sure how Edward will react to the gift I bought him, I hope he will not see it as me trying to replace the family he lost. I just wanted to get him something special for his first Christmas in this new life but now I am beginning to have second thoughts. He has already pressed me for details of what it is, almost like a child. He gets frustrated that I can usually mask my thoughts from him now.

'Shall we open our presents?' he suddenly announces. I laugh slightly as I glance at the two neatly wrapped boxes sitting under the lavishly decorated tree.

'Of course,' I reply softly, darting over to pick them up. I give him his and return to my chair with mine held tightly between my fingers. It is the first time I have received a Christmas gift, any gift, since I was turned. The Volturi never observed human holidays and I was seen as an oddity for doing so when I spent time with them in Italy.

'It's not much,' Edward says quickly as I untie the string. 'I would have got you something better but as I can't go into stores yet, or even into town properly...' He trails off looking embarrassed as I pluck a few sheets of folded paper out of the box.

'Please don't worry, Edward,' I reassure him. 'You didn't have to get me anything, this means a lot.'

'You don't know what it is, yet,' he murmurs, staring anxiously at my face as I unfold the sheets to look at what is written on them.

At the top is written in Edward's spidery handwriting, '_Carlisle's Song_' and what follows is row after row of carefully scribed notes.

'I composed it for you,' Edward is saying quickly. 'I know you like Mozart and so I used a few of his techniques. It's how I think of you, it represents your...'

I hold up a hand to stop him. My eyes are scanning the music intently. I may not be a particularly good musician but I know enough to sight-read at a basic level. The piece Edward has composed for me is beautiful, soaring and passionate and yet quiet and gentle at the same time. I can feel a muscle twitching in my cheek.

'I love it,' I say shakily. 'It's absolutely beautiful. Thank you, Edward.'

He sinks back into the cushions, a look of pure relief on his features. 'You really like it?'

'I do,' I assure him, attempting to choke back the barely suppressed emotion threatening to bubble past my lips. 'Your turn.'

My anxiety is back in full force as I watch Edward's slender, nimble fingers effortlessly untangle the string and peel away the paper from the box. He opens it and, reaching inside, withdraws the contents.

My expression has frozen as he inspects the leather strap now held in his hands. When a few seconds have passed without him speaking I find myself talking to cover the silence.

'If you don't like it or don't want it, it's not a problem. I'll find you something else.'

The silence stretches for a few moments longer and then Edward raises his eyes to mine. 'Is this what I think it is, Carlisle?'

His tone is unreadable, blank. 'If you mean is it the Cullen crest, then yes.' My gaze falls to the ring I am twisting around my finger. 'I've had my ring since I was born and I just thought, as we are companions now... I don't want you to think I'm trying to replace anybody, Edward...'

'Is that not what you're trying to do? The Cullen crest? Are you expecting me to surrender my last name and become part of a new family? Edward Cullen?'

'No, of course not,' I begin, panic starting to surface in my gut. I tamp it down and dig my fingers into the fabric of my chair's armrests. 'I'm so sorry, it was a foolish idea.'

'It was. Maybe even one of your worst.' With that he leaps up from his chair and within a second or two I hear the back door slam shut.

I dart after him, up to halfway down the path still ankle high in snow. 'Edward! Come back!' There is no reply. I have no doubt that he heard me, and there is no use in chasing him. For a start it would not solve anything and he is faster than me.

Walking at a human pace I re-enter the house and stare at the pages of sheet music now lying abandoned on the floor of the drawing-room. Carefully I gather them up and place them in a pile on the side-table. I can only hope that Edward does not head towards town. I would not be able to live with myself if innocent people get hurt because of my idiocy.

Sitting back I pray that Edward will return.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Just a quick little update. I'm sorry it's so short but I'm trying to keep the different points of view as separate as possible to avoid confusion. **

**Warnings: The usual apply.**

**Chapter Ten**

**Esme's POV**

**4****th**** January 1919**

The morning sun floods into the drawing room as I walk in. I take a moment to admire the new drapes before picking up my purse ready to leave for work. The last few months have been the best of my life so far. Every few days I put in my hours at the library, adding little by little to the ever-growing savings I have put aside. It adds up to a not inconsiderable sum and soon I hope to leave Columbus and move west forever.

There is no news about Charles and lately I have been doing my best not to think about him at all. When the war ended in November I spent the ensuing few days in a state of high nervous tension, half-expecting him to stride in through the door at any moment. Sally, seeing how terrified I was, talked some sense into me.

'If he was coming back, don't you think he would have done so already? Besides,' she added dismissively, waving a hand in the air, 'there is no way a coward like him would have survived a war.'

As November turned into December and now January with still no word, I am starting to hope that she is right, terrible as it sounds. The house is a lot more relaxed without him here. I am now on friendly terms with Myrtle, the housekeeper and often, when she has finished for the day, she will join me in having a smoke.

I do not smoke a lot. I find that it makes me feel sick if I have too many. But a couple a day can be quite pleasant, particularly if the winter sun is shining and I am outside taking a visit to the park. Besides, even if I had severely disliked it, I imagine that I would have continued anyway. In some strange way it feels as though I am fighting back against Charles's oppression and that is good for my mental state if nothing else.

Work goes by quickly, as usual. I have forged a very good relationship with Mr. Scott the librarian, although I do have to pretend to be anxious and worried if ever he mentions Charles and where he might be. I must not be too bad of an actress because he hasn't questioned my reactions yet.

The afternoon air is chilly as I leave the library and I wrap my woollen coat tighter around me, feeling the biting wind nipping at my stockings and teasing out my hair from its bun so that mad curls twirl and dance around my face.

Entering the house I carefully peel off my coat and hang it up, placing my purse down on the floor underneath it. I peer into the mirror hanging on the wall and attempt to smooth down my curls before giving it up as a lost cause and proceeding down the hallway towards the kitchen.

'Myrtle?' I call out. 'Is the tea ready?' She always has a steaming cup of tea ready for me when I come home from work and I am looking forward to sinking down into the couch cushions and putting my feet up, perhaps with my sketchpad. There is a beautiful tree that I pass on my way to the library and for days I have wanted to draw it.

The door to the kitchen opens and Myrtle peers out. I open my mouth to greet her properly but the words die on my lips as I take in her horror-struck expression. 'Myrtle?' I ask, a little confused. 'What's wrong?'

Even as I ask I can hear the study door creaking open behind me and just to my left. I do not turn around, even as the cloud of smoke wafts out into the hallway, engulfing me.

'Well, Esme. Aren't you going to welcome me home?'

**Sally's POV**

**4th January 1919**

The evening air is still and cold as I walk up the path to Esme's front door. We're going to a trendy little bar this evening, somewhere my husband introduced me to. Ever since Charles left, Esme has gradually been regaining her confidence and this, spending an evening out in a bar, will be the final test of her courage.

I tap on the door and wait for a few seconds, casually running a hand through my hair as I glance absently up and down the street. After about a minute I knock again. There is still no answer and, stepping back, I peer up at the lighted windows. A frown crosses my face.

'Esme! It's Sally, come and let me in!' I call through the letterbox.

There is silence for a few seconds and then I hear hurried footsteps coming down the hall. A few moments later and the door is wrenched open.

'About ti...' I begin and then stop. Myrtle stands in the threshold, her eyes wide and fearful.

'Myrtle?' I ask mystified. 'What's going on? I'm here to pick up Esme, we're going out tonight. Is she ready?'

'Madam is... she... Mr. Evenson, he came back and...' her words die and she chokes a little. I can feel my jaw dropping in horror.

'Her husband? He's come back?' I ask harshly and urgently.

She seems unable to speak and merely nods.

'Where is she?'

Myrtle tilts her head in the direction of the upstairs bedroom and stands aside so I can enter the house. 'The master... he has gone out...' she murmurs brokenly. 'He came back this afternoon... my poor Esme...' The woman is so distraught it seems she does not even notice this lapse in etiquette. She seems near to hysteria so I place a hand on her shoulder and guide her into the drawing-room.

'Sit down and take deep breaths. I'm here now, I'll help. When do you expect Mr. Evenson back?'

She shrugs helplessly. 'I don't know, he was in a towering rage when he left, I expect he will be drinking.'

My eyes flare and I move towards the drawing room door. 'I'm going to see Mrs. Evenson now, Myrtle. We are not to be disturbed.'

She sits on the couch wringing her hands. 'I understand, Madam.'

Slowly I ascend the stairs. The upstairs rooms are silent and forbidding. I know which is Esme's and carefully I knock lightly at the door. There is no answer.

'Esme? Darling, it's me. It's Sally,' I say through the wood. 'Are you in there? Please open the door. I'm worried.'

For a few seconds there is silence still, and I am just at the point of knocking on the door again (that or breaking it down) when I hear a shuffling and then the handle turns. Slowly I step inside, barely stifling a gasp at the sight which greets me.

Esme does not look anything like the woman I saw just a few days previously. Her beautiful chestnut hair is knotty and matted with what looks suspiciously like dried blood. There is a new open wound on her temple and what I can see of her exposed flesh is littered with fresh bruises, angry and vibrant. However it is her eyes which will always haunt me. When I first knew Esme her eyes were her most attractive feature. Large and full of life and emotion. Now they are sunken and haunted.

She does not say anything merely turns and walks back to collapse on the edge of her bed, staring into space.

'Oh my dear,' I say weakly, unable to truly voice my pain at seeing her like this. 'What did he do to you?'

'Isn't it obvious?' she returns blankly. 'He reminded me.'

I can feel the blood pounding sluggishly through my veins. 'Reminded you of what?' I say, not wanting to ask but unable not to.

She does not reply for a few seconds and when she does her tone is lifeless. 'Things I had forgotten. Is that not generally the purpose of reminders?' I cannot speak. 'I think you had better leave, Sally. I appreciate you coming around but you cannot be here when he comes home.' I shift in place and then take a few faltering steps towards her.

'I think I should stay with you, if only for a little while.'

'No.' Her voice is stronger now and for the first time she meets my eyes. I feel like crying at the desolation I see in her gaze. 'You should go. Please Sally, you have to leave.'

I begin to move back to the door, hating myself even as I do so. 'When will I see you again?' I ask desperately.

'I don't know,' she responds. 'I'm sure I'll be able to work something out.'

With my hand on the doorknob I turn to look at her. 'I'm always here for you, Esme. Always. At any time, if you need anything, come to me. Do you understand?'

She nods silently. Feeling utterly useless I leave the house, my head bowed as I walk away down the street.

**Esme's POV**

**5****th**** January 1919**

Dear Sally. It was so good of her to offer her help like that. But there is nothing she can do, there is nothing anybody can do. I was foolish to think that I was free from Charles. Nothing will stop him, it seems, not even a war. At the back of my mind, far past all the terror, pain and horror, my anger throbs and pulsates, quenched but not extinguished. Of all the men who died fighting overseas, all the good, loving husbands, sons and fathers – what God saw fit to return Charles to me? Why did all those others die and he live? Like a cockroach, I think wearily. Impossible to destroy.

Sitting down in the parlor, a half-drunk cup of tea at my side, I find my thoughts straying back to those heady, innocent days of my childhood. When my smile was unselfconscious, my laugh free and easy. Days spent running around the farm, climbing trees, joking with Will the hired hand. It feels like the life of a different person. And then, unbidden, the image of Doctor Cullen swims into my mind. A warm smile, twinkling golden eyes, their vibrancy matched only by thick blonde hair. Cool, soothing hands placed on my fevered skin.

_Where does it hurt?_

'Oh God, it hurts everywhere,' I moan aloud sinking my head into my hands. 'It hurts,' I whisper again to myself.

'Madam? Are you alright?' Myrtle stands at the door, her expression concerned. I attempt to school my features into something resembling normalcy.

'Just fine thank you, Myrtle,' I respond. She doesn't look convinced but refrains from commenting.

'Shall I bring you another cup of tea?' she asks, picking up the cold cup by my side.

'Yes please,' I murmur.

I hear her pattering around in the kitchen and allow my thoughts to drift off once again. Why should I remember this Doctor Cullen so vividly? There are times when I find it hard to recollect images of my own family and yet the picture of this man I met eight years ago is still vivid in my mind, undimmed by the passage of time. It is somehow comforting as well as unutterably sad. No matter how much pain is inflicted on me mentally and physically by Charles it is good to know that there is always this one constant. A reminder that there is good in the world. On the other hand I know that at best this remembrance is a single memento of a time long since gone. Unable to be reclaimed.

Wherever Doctor Cullen is right now, I think as Myrtle re-enters the parlor to hand me my tea, I hope his life is happier than mine. Inexplicable as it is, if I can convince myself that somewhere in the world he is smiling then that is enough for me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Another short chapter I'm afraid. Still, it's quite important in terms of character progression. The next chapter will contain a short extract from both Esme and Carlisle's POV. After that the chapters will start getting longer again, so please bear with me! I hope you enjoy this regardless.**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Edward's POV**

**7****th**** January 1919**

I am aware Carlisle will most probably be frantic with worry about me. In truth, I have felt too ashamed to return until now.

I believe I realized what a colossal exaggeration I had made out of his gift about half an hour after I left the house. I have now been absent almost two weeks and it is only my shame which has prevented me from going back. When I think about how I acted, and the expression on his face as I stalked out of the house, I feel disgusted with myself.

I never used to be this temperamental in my human life. It seems this vampiric existence has brought out a lot in me including this adolescant rage which had always previously been suppressed by the fear of my father's retribution. And now Carlisle is bearing the brunt of all my dormant anger.

It is time for me to go back. I have missed Carlisle. I have missed our quiet conversations by the fire about medicine, books, art and music. I have missed our games of chess in which he attempts to conceal his every thought so that he may stand a chance at winning. I have missed the companionship. And if I feel this lonely after only a few days, how on earth did he stand the loneliness for all those long years? More and more I am beginning to understand his decision to change me. I may never be fully accepting of it but I no longer blame him.

The house is silent as I approach. There are familiar scents in the air; earth, water, bark and leaves. The smell of snow and rain. And Carlisle's personal fragrance which is hard to define but which reminds me of home. It has been less than a year and he is the most important figure in my life.

As I near the door I can pin down his exact location by the gentle trickle of water-droplets and a swish of rough fabric. He is in the bathroom. Quietly I let myself in and enter the living-room. It remains much as I left it with only Carlisle's lingering scent to let me know he's been here at all.

I stiffen as I notice the music I gave him as a present. The pages are rumpled but appear to have been carefully smoothed out as best as they can be. They are set in pride of place on the otherwise empty coffee-table in the middle of the room. I smile slightly to myself and finger the leather bracelet now firmly fixed around my wrist.

Footsteps on the stairs alert me to Carlisle's imminent presence in the room. I turn to face the doorway, hoping my expression is suitably contrite.

_Edward. You're back._

I had been preparing myself for anger and retribution, both of which I fully deserve. Instead there is no mistaking the delight which radiates from every inch of him. His blonde hair is slightly damp and ruffled, in one hand he carries a threadbare scrap of towel. There is a redolent smell of soap in the air. Although technically there is no need for us to wash our hair I understand why Carlisle still carries on doing it. It gives our life a sense of normality.

_You're back_.

'Clearly,' I mumble, running a hand through my ever-tousled hair. 'I forgot to say something before I left.' He looks at me enquiringly. He has aged since I have been away. Not in any real physical sense as that is of course impossible. His face is as unlined and youthful as it was two weeks ago. But his eyes tell a different story. There's an anxiety there which wasn't present before. I sigh deeply. It's going to take me some time to rebuild our bond. I move my arms from behind my back so he can see my wrist and the bracelet on it. 'Thank you for my gift. It's beautiful.'

'You honestly don't have to wear it, Edward. It was thoughtless of me.'

'Enough, Carlisle. I am honoured to wear the Cullen crest. And you know,' I add thoughtfully. 'Edward Masen Cullen doesn't sound so bad after all.'

He laughs and it takes me two fluid steps to stand in front of him and pull him into a hug. 'Thank you, Carlisle. Honestly.'

'You're welcome.'

**Carlisle's POV**

**19****th**** June 1919**

The anniversary of Edward's change comes around quickly. He doesn't wish to make anything of it, understandably, so we mark the occasion with a trip into town.

We walk down the main street, aware of the stares our presence is attracting. I have been working at the nearest hospital this past year so the townspeople have become accustomed to me but Edward is a different matter. Ever since late March I have been dropping little hints here and there about my younger brother who may be coming to stay.

Around the beginning of spring Edward approached me and requested permission to venture into town at some point. He said, quite correctly, that his control was only getting better and he was going to have to face the scent of human blood at some point if he was ever going to live at least a semblance of a normal life. I agreed, with a little reluctance, and therefore started paving the way for his sudden presence in town.

I have always been a figure of some interest to the people of Ashland, therefore it was natural that they should be curious about this brother suddenly turning up out of the blue. In our human lives we looked nothing alike but now, thanks to the shared golden hue of our irises and our unnaturally pale skin, it isn't difficult to believe we are related somehow. For the purposes of keeping up appearances Edward announced that he thought it best it we dropped the Masen from his name when being introduced. Too many questions.

I agreed and attempted to keep the irrational jump of joy I felt hidden from him. I could see how much it pained him to lose yet another part of his human life and to read my jubilant thoughts would have only hurt him more.

I glance over at him now, where he is idly perusing some new sheet music. There are visible signs of strain evident in his seemingly relaxed posture. A slight tension in his jaw and his fingers are clutching at the fragile paper slightly harder than is necessary. I keep my distance but I am close enough if he needs me. Close enough should anything go wrong. He has been into town a few times before but today is easily the busiest it's been recently.

Everytime somebody brushes past him I can see him stiffen. Only a vampire would be able to tell that he isn't breathing because he has adopted the method I taught him of moving his shoulders slightly to make it appear as though he is inhaling.

'Can I help you with anything today Doctor Cullen?' The young sales assistant approaches me with the usual awe and desire in her gaze. I can hear her pulse elevate as she draws close to me.

'No thank you,' I reply cordially. 'I'm just here with my brother. I'm showing him around, he's keen on music.' I gesture to where Edward is absorbed in what looks like a movement by Chopin. The girl glances over and her eyes widen perceptibly.

'Oh. He is your brother? Yes, I can see the resemblance.'

I smile inwardly. 'Younger than me by six years,' I say. 'Our parents decided it was time he started making his own way in the world.'

It is little snippets like this which flesh out the skeletal bones of a lie. These innocuous little pieces of information will spread quickly in a town as small and self-contained as Ashland.

'Edward,' I call over the bustle of the shop. 'Come over and meet Miss West.'

'How did you know my name?' she asks breathlessly. I smile at her and her breathing stutters slightly.

'It's on your badge,' I reply. Her fingers move automatically to the square of cardboard clipped to her dress which proclaims her name in bold type.

Edward is approaching with caution and stands before her, bowing his head slightly.

'It's a pleasure,' he says stiffly. 'Edward Cullen.'


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: I am well aware that my chapters are getting shorter and shorter! Don't worry, this is the last of them for awhile! The next should be up to usual length during which Esme finally gets free of Charles. **

**Warnings: Fairly graphic violence. Angst. Hinted at non-con. Please do not read if this may be triggering for you. **

**Chapter Twelve**

**Esme's POV**

**20****th**** October 1919**

'Please, please Charles. Stop.' Is this really me making these whimpering sounds? Is it me pleading with my husband in such a shattered voice? I don't know why I bother anymore. If anything my hoarse cries only spur him on in his rages.

This time he kicks me one more time before bending down and pinching my face between his fingers, turning my head to face his.

'You won't forget again, will you Esme?' he asks softly.

'No,' I whisper. 'I won't forget. I'm sorry.'

'Then we'll say no more about it,' he says in a reasonable tone, gripping my shoulder tightly and heaving me to my feet. My legs shake beneath me and I have to reach out onto the wall to hold myself steady. 'I expect dinner in half an hour. Have Myrtle scour the pantry for whatever we have leftover.'

'Yes, Charles,' I say trying to suppress the sudden and unexpected surge of hatred and anger. Holding my side, as if that will help stop the pain, I make my way down the passageway and towards the kitchen, aware of my husband's eyes following me. I give Myrtle her instructions and then limp upstairs to the bedroom to try and fix my face.

A beating which has left me struggling to breathe and walk, and what for this time? I forgot to go to the grocery store to get in supplies for tonight's supper. I seem to be forgetting a lot of things lately, which in turn leads to more reminders from Charles.

The tears drip down my bruised cheeks and I sniff furiously, searching frantically for the tissues, my fingers fluttering agitatedly over the multitude of bottles and lotions which litter my dressing-table. Many of them guarantee to soothe and heal damaged skin. Well, if my skin isn't damaged I don't know what it is.

I find the tissues and blot my face, hating the reflection staring back at me from the mirror which is slightly cracked in one corner from the time a couple of weeks back when Charles slammed me into it headfirst.

No creams are going to be able to disguise the red-puffiness around my eyes. No lotion is going to cover the livid bruises on my cheekbones, temples and jawline.

Dinner is a silent affair and that night he forces himself on me as usual. He seems to take it as a personal insult to his masculinity that I have not yet become pregnant and his attentions in the bedroom have taken on a much rougher aspect of late. I turn my face into the pillow to muffle my sobs as he pistons in and out, the violent movement jolting my injured body.

Finally he releases and rolls off me. 'You'll be pregnant soon,' he whispers to me in the darkness. 'You'll give me a son and then we'll be a proper family.' Only Charles could make a statement like that sound like a threat.

And this starts me to thinking what on earth I will do if I do indeed become pregnant. Every fibre of my being revolts at the idea of subjecting any child of mine, boy or girl, to the attentions of a man like Charles. I am under no illusions. He may hold off for awhile but very soon his nature will get the better of him and he will begin beating his children too. There is nothing I would like more than to be a mother – but not with a man like Charles. In fact there is only one man I have met in my life who I have thought would be perfect as a father to my children. But that is a fantasy. That man is long gone.

**Carlisle's POV **

**14****th**** February 1921**

'Do you think about her often?'

The question comes out of the blue. I am sat in my favorite chair, immersed in the latest medical journal, making occasional notes on the pad of paper at my side. Edward is sitting across from me, jabbing at the fire with the poker, a thoughtful expression in his now honey-gold eyes.

'Who?' I murmur, still half lost in the world of medicine.

'That woman. What was her name? Elsie?'

I glance at him and place the journal to one side. 'Esme. Why the question?'

He shrugs his skinny shoulders and moves to sit down in the chair next to mine. 'There are times when she crosses your mind and then you immediately think about something else if I'm in the room. It's Valentine's Day, I just thought that today would be an appropriate date if you wished to talk about her.'

Under his casual words I can sense a burning curiosity. I suppose it makes sense. He is after all, still a young man. From what I have gleaned he is not particularly _au fait_ with the fairer sex. I tap my fingers against the plush cushion of the armrest as I ponder on how to reply.

'She is often on my mind, yes. It is... curious. In all my years on earth very few people have affected me like she. You are one, of course.' He smiles at this and remains silent, waiting for me to carry on. 'I hardly spoke to her, as I've told you before. We only met a couple of times and yet she is never far from my thoughts.'

'If things had been... different,' he says hesitantly and I know he means if I were human, 'what would you have done?'

His words are enigmatic and yet such is our connection that I know immediately what he is talking about. I meet his eyes and smile. 'I would have married her. Of that I have no doubt. If things were different I would have given her everything she wanted.'

'She is your soulmate?' Edward says, half teasingly but with a serious undertone. I think of Esme's smile, her unrestrained joy for life. I think of her curling chestnut hair and sparkling eyes.

'In another life,' I reply sadly and pick up my journal again, indicating without words that the conversation is over. I hear Edward sigh and wander out to the piano. After a moment music begins to filter into the room. I allow the melody to wash over me and attempt to lose myself in medicine once more.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: Esme's escape at last. Need I say more? Hope this doesn't disappoint.**

**Warnings: Charles. He comes with his own warning.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Esme's POV**

**10****th**** April 1921**

'You stupid hussy!' Charles snarls at me, grabbing my hair by the roots and dragging me to my feet. 'What made you think you could conceal this from me? Who gave you the _right_!'

'Charles, stop,' I beg feeling the sharp pain spear through my scalp. 'I'm sorry!'

I know it's not going to be enough.

'Sorry! Is that all you can say? Sorry for working out in the town like a common whore while I was away? Sorry you stashed your filthy earnings away? Sorry you tried to keep it a _secret_?' His narrow face is splotched with angry red markings, his eyes furious and narrow. Spittle from his lips flies out to land on my upturned face. I cringe beneath his onslaught. 'You are my _wife_!' he roars.

'It was just a job, it meant nothing,' I plead. 'I was going to tell you about the money but...'

'Let me guess. The subject never came up? "Oh, hello honey, how was your day? By the way I've been prostituting myself out while you were fighting for your country. I hope you don't mind?"' With a muted curse he lets me fall. Sobbing I begin to inch backwards across the floor as he rages and paces back and forth near the bed.

_This is it_, I think numbly. _This is when he kills me_. _Finally_.

He turns towards me and begins to approach, his posture tense and his muscles bunched under his white work shirt. I scrabble around on the floorboards for something, _anything_. As quickly as the thought that he is going to kill me strikes, so does the unexpected rebellion. _I will not take this pliantly_. _If he is going to kill me, I am not going to make it easy for him_.

My trembling fingers close around something and I flick my eyes to it hastily. One of my old high-heeled shoes, lying half forgotten under the dresser. His gaze is locked on my face; he does not see the object in my hand.

As he bends over me, his hand raised to deliver a punch, I bring my arm up from behind my back and catch him on the side of the head with the heel of the shoe. The blow isn't particularly strong but it is nevertheless enough to cast him off balance momentarily. That's all that is needed. He pinwheels for an endless moment, his arms jerking in the air, and then he falls sideways, his temple cracking against the sharp corner of the dresser.

Blood leaks out onto the wood from the wound on his head. I am so sure I have killed him. I bring nerveless hands up to my face which is surely as white as chalk and stare at his inert body through the gaps in my fingers.

_What am I going to do? I cannot conceal this! Myrtle will be in in the morning to clean and make the breakfast. She'll alert the authorities and I will be executed for murder._

Then he groans slightly, although he doesn't move, and I can breathe again. The exhalation of my breath comes out in a shaky gasp of relief. But my relief is short-lived. It occurs to me in that moment that this is my chance, perhaps my last chance of escape. If I let this opportunity go there may never be another one.

Painfully I get to my feet and drag a cloth bag out from the bottom of the wardrobe. Sobbing, tears obscuring my vision, I fling clothes into it haphazardly, my mother would throw a fit if she could see me packing like this, and the errant thought makes me giggle hysterically. Shoes, underwear, blouses, skirts, stockings and a couple of dresses, all go into the bag. What else? A summer hat. A belt. And of course, the cause of all the events tonight, the wad of crumpled dollars lying in a ball in the corner of the room where he threw them. My ticket to escape.

Returning to the dresser I step over the comatose body of my husband and drag a brush through my dishevelled hair. With shaking hands I apply a little make-up to my face, enough to conceal the worst of the bruises and cuts and make me look at least a little respectable. I will not get far if my injuries attract undue attention. Thank goodness I had not yet changed for bed. That saves a lot of time.

I slip my feet into my most comfortable pair of shoes and do up the buckles. Grabbing the bag I cast one last look at the bedroom and my husband and then hurry down the stairs, wincing at the various pains in my back, legs and stomach.

My coat and hat are waiting for me on the hooks by the door. I struggle into them, belt up the coat, secure the hat with a few pins and then I am out of the door. Out of my life.

The streets of Columbus are dark and deserted at this hour. Few lights shine out from the windows, most of which are shuttered or curtained. I know exactly where I am going and I run there as fast as I can, my heels skittering on the pavement.

Sally. Sally Scholes. Who else?

Her house is as dark and quiet as the others nearby. Unlatching the gate I stumble up the path to the front door, almost catching my heel in an unseen dip in the stone.

Uncaring of the hour I pull on the bell. The clanging reverberates inside and I hear muted sounds from upstairs. A light flickers on in the hallway and hurried footsteps approach the door.

Harry Scholes stands in front of me wearing a dark-blue dressing gown and a thunderous scowl which melts away as he takes me in on the doorstep.

Hardly missing a beat he twists and calls up the stairs to his wife. 'Sally! You'd better come down!'

Gently he rests a hand on my shoulder, I still cannot help but flinch, and draws me inside, shutting the door quietly behind me. Sally appears on the upstairs landing and a small boy peers out from behind her, his dark hair ruffled and his eyes bleary with sleep. Edward, of course. He must be seven by now. Somewhere a child starts to cry. Molly, their daughter, who by my reckoning is five.

'Esme?' Sally clatters down the stairs in her nightdress and dressing gown. 'Esme, what's happened?' She makes a shooing motion to her husband who casts me a quick concerned glance and then mumbles something about seeing to Molly and Edward and heads back upstairs.

Sally wraps an arm around my waist for support as I get out of my shoes, coat and hat and guides me into the front parlor. She flicks on the light and draws me down onto the couch.

'You need a stiff drink, darling. Sit tight, I'll be right back.'

She is as good as her word, returning in less than a minute with a tumbler half-filled with a golden liquid. I take a tentative sip and cough as it sears down my throat.

'Now. What happened? Take your time.'

I laugh a little wildly and the liquid sloshes around in my glass. 'I... left Charles. I hit him with my shoe and left. I left him, I...' my voice breaks and I take another fortifying sip of whisky. Sally's expression is mixture of confusion, joy and worry.

'Right, you left him. What's this about a shoe? You're not making much sense, darling.'

'He found the money. From the library. He wouldn't stop hitting me, Sal. It, we were in the bedroom. He was going to kill me, I know it. So I grabbed a shoe and hit him. He fell against the dresser. I packed a bag and came straight here. I don't know what I'm going to do.'

Sally is silent for awhile as I drink. Eventually she speaks.

'Is he dead?'

'No. You can't kill a cockroach.' She blinks, no doubt unaccustomed to the venom in my tone. 'He was unconscious, I think.' I turn to stare at her. 'Sally, I don't have much time. He's going to be after me. I need to get away from here. I have money. You said you would help me...'

She hushes me and strokes a hand through my hair. 'Shhh, Esme. Of course I'll help you. We both will, Harry and I. We'll think of something.'

'I've always wanted to move west,' I announce suddenly after a minute or so of silence. Upstairs the crying has been hushed. I presume Molly and Edward are settled back into their beds and I feel momentarily guilty for disturbing their sleep. 'I wanted to be a schoolteacher. That was my dream.'

Sally nods thoughtfully. 'Right. Well, it's not so impossible. Travel really is a marvel nowadays.'

There is a cough from the doorway and we both turn in unison. Harry stands there awkwardly.

'I couldn't help but overhear. I might have a solution for you, Esme.' His voice is calm and quiet, so unlike Charles's high-pitched rages. I can feel it soothe my shattered nerves and relax slightly. Sally is confused.

'What is it dear?'

Harry comes into the room and seats himself on the chair opposite us, his pleasant open face wrinkled with thought. 'I have a friend in Ashland, Wisconsin. He works as the Headmaster of a new Elementary School. Lately he has been writing to me, complaining about a position he needs filling. I said I would keep my eyes open for anybody suitable.' He leans forward earnestly. 'Esme, there is a night train to Ashland from Columbus station. It's slow but it will get you there in three days. Do you have enough money to last you for at least a fortnight?'

I nod. He smiles broadly. 'I shall drive you to the station tonight. If what you have said is correct we don't have much time before your husband goes on the warpath. Tomorrow morning I will write to Toby and tell him that I am recommending you. You can say you are a war widow searching for a fresh start. With any luck he will hire you.'

I am aware that my mouth has dropped open. 'What about Charles?' I whisper eventually, unable to even consider why Harry would help me. 'He is my husband...'

'In name,' Harry agrees evenly. 'But Esme, I have known you for as long as you've known Sally. You're like a sister to me. And Charles does not treat you the way you deserve.' His tone hardens. 'I will give you every aid in my power to get you away from him.'

Sally gazes at him proudly, love radiating from her and blows him a kiss. He smiles at her and then turns his attention back to me. 'So? What do you think?'

'I think it's perfect,' I whisper hoarsely. 'You would really do all this? What if he comes here and asks...?'

Sally squeezes my arm and I flinch as her fingers unwittingly press into a fresh bruise. 'We've never seen you.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Harry drives me to the station in his old cart drawn by their faithful pony. The car, as he says, although undoubtedly faster would also wake half the neighborhood and attract far too much attention.

My mind is full of Sally's tearful face as she said her goodbyes on the front stoop.

'Make sure to write and tell us you're okay,' she said. 'I'll miss you.'

The station is mainly dark but there are a few lamps shedding a weak light on the glistening steel of the traintracks and illuminating the inside of the stationhouse.

The elderly man behind the counter displays no curiosity when I tentatively ask for a ticket for the night train to Ashland. I am thankful nevertheless for Harry's solid, comforting bulk behind me.

'I'll see you safely onto the train,' he says as we walk out onto the platform. I huddle into my coat and sit down on a bench.

'You don't have to,' I protest weakly.

'Sally would never forgive me if something happened to you and I could have prevented it. _I'd_ never forgive me.'

A half-smile creeps onto my face, pulling at the sensitive skin which is by now unused to such a motion.

Harry sits with me for ten minutes in a companionable silence until the distinctive shrieks of metal under pressure announce the arrival of the train.

As it pulls into the station and draws to a halt with a protesting whine he places his hands on my shoulders and gazes intently at me. 'You'll be all right, Esme. I'll write my friend tomorrow. Mr. Toby Stevens, Headmaster at Monkford Elementary. Don't forget.'

'I won't,' I whisper, my gratitude making it hard for me to speak. 'Thank you for everything, Harry. Send my love to Sally and the children. I'll write as soon as I'm able.'

'Make sure you do,' he says, leaning over and kissing me gently on the cheek.

The night conductor blows his whistle, indicating the train is ready to leave. Harry helps me on and hands in my bag.

'Don't be a stranger,' he says with a jaunty grin, tipping his hat to me. I smile in return, pick up my luggage and find a seat near the window. The whistle sounds again, and the train begins to pull out of the station with a hiss, the tracks screech as it gathers speed. Harry disappears into the darkness, his arm raised in an eternal salute.

When the ticket Inspector comes around I suffer another attack of acute panic. Irrationally I am expecting him to find something wrong, perhaps it is somehow out-of-date, or instead imagine that he will point an accusing finger at me and denounce me openly as a woman who has violently attacked her husband and forsaken her marriage vows. Instead he punches the cardboard and hands it back to me.

'Out a bit late, Madam,' he comments conversationally, holding absently onto the seat in front as the train lurches over a join in the tracks.

'My mother, she's very sick,' I say, astonishing myself with the glibness of the lie. He nods and his eyes are sympathetic.

'I'm sorry to hear that. I hope she'll be all right.'

'Me too,' I whisper. 'Me too.'


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: Well, back again. A bit of a monster chapter for you now, as promised. It does have a little bit of Carlisle and Edward to keep you going, but it's mostly Esme as this is the pivotal year in her life. Next chapter will be exceedingly angsty (I'm sure you can all guess why) so brace yourselves for that. This, however, is fairly fluffy.**

**Warnings: Not many this time – shocker, I know.**

**Disclaimer: I wish I had thought up these wonderful characters. Sadly I did not and all credit must go to Stephenie Meyer and her imagination.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**14****th**** April 1921**

**Esme's POV**

'Ah, Mrs Platt, please come in. Have a seat.' The man behind the desk indicates an uncomfortable looking chair. Presumably this is where misbehaving students perch as they await retribution. Perhaps a little of this feeling is transferred through the wood to me; as I feel more than a little on edge as I sink down and place my hands on my lap.

Mr. Stevens is a sharp-featured man with somewhat stereotypical glasses perched on the end of his long nose. Yet in spite of his severe expression there is a subtle softness to his eyes and a warmth to his face which allows me to understand why somebody as jovial as Harry Scholes is friendly with him. 'I received a letter from Mr. Scholes yesterday. I understand you are looking for a position as a teacher?'

'Yes, sir,' I whisper.

'Do you have any previous experience?'

My hands twist in my lap. 'No, sir.'

He frowns slightly. 'Mr. Scholes recommends you most highly.' Tapping his fingers against the wood of the desk he peers solemnly at me over the rim of his glasses. 'You are very young, Mrs Platt. Mr. Scholes tells me you were widowed by the war. I presume that is why you are now looking for a profession?'

'You're right, Mr. Stevens,' I attempt to look as distressed as possible and take a handkerchief from my purse, dabbing at my eyes. 'He, my husband, did not leave me with a lot of money. I'm good with children. I learn quickly...'

_I have the bruises to prove it._

'This is all very unorthodox,' he responds eventually, his hands steepled together in front of him. 'However I _am_ in urgent need of at least a temporary teacher. How about you fill the post for now and I'll give you a trial period? If, by the end of the month, everything is working out all right the position will be yours. Does that sound fair?'

Honestly? It sounds better than my wildest dreams. A schoolteacher in a town so far removed from Columbus, Ohio, it might as well be in a different world.

'That sounds perfect,' I reply.

'Excellent,' he says, his tone business-like. 'You can start next week.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I return to the small set of rooms I have managed to procure until I get back on my feet. The rent per month is very reasonable and the rooms are clean and more than adequate for my needs.

Barefoot I wander through the sparsely decorated rooms, feeling the wood of the grainy floorboards under my feet. It seems so light and open here. The house back in Columbus was always overshadowed by oppressive, overly-large dark furniture and heavy drapes. Sometimes it reminded me of a mausoleum, full of ominous silences.

These new rooms have nothing of that feel. Curling up on the tattered couch with a steaming cup of coffee I sigh with contentment. However, I cannot yet shake the feeling that at any moment there will be a thunderous knocking at the door and when I open it Charles will be standing there ready to drag me back to Columbus and my marriage vows.

I laugh, a little shakily, and take a deep sip of my coffee before placing it carefully on the side-table and get up once more. I should write that letter to Sally and Harry, let them know I have arrived safely and thank them for all their help. I have no doubt that if it hadn't been for them, I would never have been able to leave Charles or Columbus. I would never have been able to pursue my dream of teaching and getting out of Ohio.

There is a desk in the corner of the room and I have placed a stack of writing-paper on it. Sitting down, I pull a sheet towards me and carefully begin to write.

The knocking at the door interrupts me. I do not know how long I have been sat at the desk, but the afternoon is beginning to fade into evening and I appear to be writing an essay. I sit back, laying the pen gently on the desk and try to calm the panic which is bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. It comes again, a gentle _rat-tat_, echoing down the empty hallway.

I swallow and get up, smoothing my hair and dress as I do so. Almost dreamlike I glide down the hall to open the door. In my mind I am certain it is Charles and so when the door moves inward under my grasp to reveal a plump, pleasant-featured woman of about fifty-five, I have to blink several times to reassure myself that she is real.

'Good afternoon,' she says, smiling broadly at me. 'I'm Doris Keating, your next-door neighbor. Mrs Ellis told me she'd rented out these rooms so I thought I'd come around and introduce myself.'

Still in a state of mild shock I nod and beckon her inside. She enters, still chattering away, and places a basket down on the floor as she bends to remove her shoes.

'May I take your coat?' I ask faintly as she straightens up once more. She pats my shoulder affectionately.

'Oh, no, bless you dear. That's all right.' She shrugs out of the garment, which looks as if it has seen better days, and hangs it up along with her hat. 'Look at me, carrying on. I didn't even get your name.'

'Esme. Esme... Platt.'

'Lovely.' She catches a glance of my wedding-ring which I have been sure to keep on and peers about, almost as if she is expecting a man to leap out from behind one of the doors.

'Is your husband about, dear?'

'No,' I whisper. 'He's... he was killed. In the war. I'm a widow.'

Her face softens into a look of genuine sympathy. 'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I did wonder, you know, when Mrs Ellis said it was a young lady on her own.' It strikes me suddenly that this Doris Keating is one of life's indomitable gossips. Nevertheless she seems welcoming and it is good to hear a friendly voice.

'I brought along some little cakes,' she announces, picking the basket up and wandering off down the hall, unnerringly in the direction of the kitchen. 'As a housewarming gift.'

'That's very kind of you,' I murmur, opening the door of the kitchen and taking the basket from her with a smile. 'I'll just get some plates and we can have some with tea. That is, if you've time to stay?'

'Oh, bless you,' she says again. 'I've all the time in the world, dear. My husband doesn't finish work until six and then he usually goes to a bar with the chaps from the office.'

_How nice it must be_, I think to myself. _To have a husband who doesn't return from work fuelled with the sole desire to beat his wife senseless_. I shake my head, internally scolding myself. Those sorts of thoughts will get me precisely nowhere. And honestly, Charles is not worth taking the time to think about.

We sit in the parlor, drinking tea and eating the cakes which are truly delicious. Doris chats about this and that, mainly her relatives and the goings-on in the town. It seems Ashland has a similar small-town mentality to Columbus, where everyone knows everybody else's business.

'... and so then, this brother turns up! If you can believe it. Right out of the blue.'

'I'm sorry,' I respond absently, tuning back into the conversation. 'What was that?'

'Oh, nothing, dear, I'm just going on, as usual.' Doris finishes her tea and places the cup down on the table before glancing out of the window at the now darkened sky. 'Look at that. Mr. Keating will be expecting his dinner shortly, I'd better be getting back. It was lovely to meet you, my dear.'

'You too,' I reply honestly, following her down the hall and watching as she fastens herself back into her coat and slips on her shoes.

'I'll come by and pay you a visit again sometime,' she says gently, clasping my hand with hers. 'You look like you could do with a bit of company.'

Astonishingly I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes and I realize it's purely her kindness which is bringing out this emotional reaction. Apart from Sally and Harry it has been a long time since anybody has shown me any compassion. I smile weakly and nod my head.

'That would be lovely. Come around anytime you like. Although, I am waiting to hear about a job in town and if I get the position I may not be here as much.'

She looks a little startled and then recovers herself. 'A job! My, my, how enterprising of you, my dear. I'm quite sure I wouldn't have the nerve.'

'My husband didn't leave me much,' I say quickly.

'Oh, I didn't mean it as an insult!' she responds, her face open and honest. 'I believe that a woman should be able to do anything she likes in this world.' I blink at such a subversive statement and she winks at me and leaves, waving back over her shoulder as she makes her way down the path, the basket swinging from her arm.

The smell of the flowers in the small patch of earth that passes for a front garden steals towards me on the night air and I inhale deeply, leaning against the wood of the door. Maybe for the first time in a long while I feel at peace.

**April 15****th**** 1921**

I am woken in the early morning by a sudden bout of nausea. Clamping my hand over my mouth I flee to the small privy outside and kneel over the porcelain of the bowl until everything has come up. Sighing I sink back on my heels and wipe the sides of my mouth delicately. The smell threatens to make me gag again, so I flush and return inside, my nightgown fluttering, causing a chill to run up my legs. I shiver and climb back into bed, drawing the blankets up tightly around my body.

Unfortunately the sickness carries on well into the rest of the day. I attempt to distract myself by doing chores around the house, dusting and cleaning, however I am forced several times to return to the privy.

At midday I make myself a small bowl of stew but the smell makes me retch so I throw it away. I am certainly coming down with something, some virus perhaps. If it gets any worse I shall have to find the nearest doctor. For now I make do with eating a small amount of bread with butter.

**April 17****th**** 1921**

The nausea has continued. Today I woke at half past four in the morning and had to make yet another visit to the privy.

I sit in the parlor and rub at my stomach distractedly, my head thrown back on the cushions of the couch. Maybe I should talk to a doctor.

The rapping on the door distracts me from my thoughts, and upon opening it, I see Doris Keating standing before me.

'I am so sorry to burst in on you like this again,' she says cheerfully. 'I was at a bit of a loose end and thought I would come and talk with you. I so enjoyed our time together the other day.'

'Me too,' I agree softly, standing back to let her in. Once she is divested of her coat, hat and shoes we retire to the parlor with a steaming pot of tea and some biscuits I located in one of the cupboards.

'My dear, are you feeling well?' she asks, peering closely at me. 'You're white as a sheet.'

'I have not slept too well these past few nights,' I confide. 'I have some sickness, or virus, it has kept me awake.' My eyes suddenly widen with horror. 'I hope I will not pass whatever it is onto you. It may be contagious.'

Doris Keating is silent a moment, studying me. I become uncomfortable under her scrutiny and fiddle absently with the cushion cover on the couch. Suddenly she claps her hands together which makes me jump.

'Have you been feeling tired? Listless? Have you found food and certain smells unappealing?'

I nod, bewildered. 'Yes, how...?'

'When was your last flow?' she asks me bluntly. I blink.

'My... it was...' I hesitate, calculating back. _When_ was it? 'I...' A slow-dawning realization crosses my face. 'It was about six weeks ago,' I confess shakily. She smiles slightly and pats my hand.

'My dear, this sickness, it is perfectly natural. You are expecting. My congratulations to you.'

'A baby,' I say wonderingly, my hand moving automatically to my stomach. Doris smiles at me, although the smile is tinged with worry.

'I would say so, and I have a lot of experience, what with five of my own. I should think you are about a month gone.' Her tone grows serious and she leans forwards slightly. 'A child is a gift, to be sure, but how are you going to manage with no husband to support you?'

'I have my job as a teacher,' I say determinedly. 'It may not be much, but I do have some savings put by.'

'It will not be easy,' she muses, and then her expression clears. 'My, my! A baby! I will be here for you whenever you need me, Esme. It can be a frightening thing, becoming a mother for the first time.'

_A mother_. The words echo in my mind and I feel the tears start sliding down my cheeks. Doris's hand on mine clasps tighter but I barely register the comfort. _A baby. I'm going to be a mother_.

'It's wonderful,' I whisper to myself, my hand moving backwards and forwards on my flat stomach. 'A miracle.'

**5****th**** September 1921**

The day is muggy and overcast, a remnant of the overwhelming heat of the summer which has just passed. I walk from the school to the centre of town with the intention of visiting the bookshop.

In these few months since my release from Charles I have found my mind and my brain reawakening, as if from a deep sleep. My position as a teacher at the school was cemented within the first week by Mr. Stevens and I have taught there ever since. It is truly a delight to stand in front of all those children and impart learning. They are the sweetest and most eager to learn I have ever met. True, there are a few troublemakers, but I have always relished a challenge.

My belly swells out from under my coat which I have had to adapt to fit my changing shape, along with many of my other clothes. Doris has been a Godsend, she has given me many of her old belongings such as a wooden crib and small, soft toys for when he or she is finally born.

Absently I rest my hand upon my bump, massaging small circles as I walk. In truth, it is perhaps a little too muggy and stifling for a coat but I fear I would attract too much attention if I ventured out in my thin summer dress.

The bookshop is even hotter than the day outside as I enter and it is fairly full of customers, standing by the shelves and flicking through novels or chatting to each other in small groups.

_Are you fond of books?_

I stop in the middle of the shop and have to hold onto the edge of a table for support as the memory assaults me. Where did that come from? I have not thought about my golden-eyed doctor for months. The child growing inside me has taken up all of my attention and thought. And now his voice, so well remembered even after all these years, echoing in my head.

Blinking I advance into the shop a little more, my eyes scanning the titles on shelves. I am not entirely sure what I am looking for here. I meant to get something on knitting patterns. The baby is going to need clothes and there is only so much I can presume on the generosity of Doris.

_And here she is. Are you ready to get that cast off, Miss Platt?_

I stagger, the hand which is not resting on my belly wavering out to clutch at something, anything. The room feels too hot, far too hot. I can feel my face flushing and my head begins to swim. The shadowy interior of the shop becomes blurry and indistinct even as I look upon it.

'Madam? Madam, are you all right?'

A voice echoes nearby but I cannot understand the words let alone reply to them. The light fades to darkness.

**5****th**** September 1921**

**Carlisle's POV**

'Madam? Madam, are you all right?'

The tone of the man's voice alerts me that something is not quite right. I glance up from the novel, _Tom Swift Among the Fire Fighters_ which I have been looking at as a gift for Edward. For some inexplicable reason he adores Victor Appleton, although it is my opinion that the stories are the worst example of sensationalism.

'Help! This woman needs help! Is there a doctor here? She's fainted!'

Craning my head I catch a glimpse of a dark-haired woman with tumbling curls prone on the ground, obviously heavily pregnant. Despite myself, despite not knowing her, I feel myself worry. This shop is terribly hot, it would not surprise me if the heat got to her. I am just beginning to place the book back on the shelf and offer my services when somebody else calls out.

'I'm a doctor! Let me through!' A slender man with dark hair and glasses is pushing his way through the crowd. He is closer than I am. And yet there is something which is telling me to approach, to offer this unknown woman my aid. There is a strange feeling in my stomach and with a jolt of surprise I identify it as jealousy. Why? This woman is a stranger to me, why should I feel such an emotion when another man offers her help?

In an agony of indecision I stand, the novel still in my hand. It is a glance out of the window which decides me. The clouds are beginning to clear in the east. If I leave it much longer I am going to run the risk of getting caught in here while the sun blazes down.

Hurriedly I pay for the novel and leave, casting one last glance at the woman on the floor through the crowds of people. The doctor is kneeling beside her and seems to be competent. Stil reluctant to leave for some inexplicable reason I push the door open and escape into the muggy September air.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'You're late back,' Edward comments as I breeze through the door and enter the drawing-room.

'I took a little detour into town,' I say, tossing the novel to him. He catches it deftly and turns it over in his hands.

'_Tom Swift Among the Fire Fighters_!' he exclaims, sounding so much like a thrilled little boy that it makes me laugh. 'My thanks, Carlisle.'

'I know you've been waiting for it,' I respond casually.

'What's wrong?' he asks after a moment's silence. I glance at him from my seat in my favorite armchair.

'Nothing,' I say, slightly defensively.

'Carlisle. You're clouding your thoughts from me very deliberately. I do not think you have ever in your life decided to recite the Hippocratic Oath before.'

Sighing I sink back into the chair and drum my fingers on the armrest. 'It is truly of no consequence. Only, there was this woman in the bookshop...' I allow the memory to fill my head and am conscious of Edward's searching gaze as he examines the images and dialogue. After a moment he shrugs.

'What of it? I don't understand what has you this bothered.'

'Neither do I,' I reply. 'That is what concerns me.'

'I know,' he announces suddenly. 'This woman, she reminded you of that Esme you knew back in Columbus.'

I begin to scoff at this and then pause, suddenly. Maybe Edward is right. Now that I think back on it, there was something reminiscent of Esme in the curly hair and slender frame. I have no clue as to what Esme looks like now, but I suppose I have always imagined her as looking something like the woman in the shop. Perhaps she is pregnant herself. Perhaps she has many children by a charming man who is permitted to kiss her and wrap himself in her arms...

I clench my teeth with an audible grinding noise and my fingers dig themselves through the fabric of the armrest.

'Carlisle,' Edward says warningly.

'My apologies,' I say after a minute or two of wrestling with my darker thoughts.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 'You have to let her go, Carlisle,' he says at last. 'This obsession, it isn't doing you any good. There is no way you can ever be with her.'

'I know that, Edward,' I respond, stung. Usually it is me offering the sensible advice, not the other way around.

'I'm not sure that you do,' he says seriously. 'Forget her. Move on.' He grins suddenly, impishly, reminding me abruptly of the seventeen-year-old human boy he once was. 'Think instead of what you are going to get me for my Christmas gift.'

'Spoilt brat,' I scold lightly, throwing a cushion at him.

He tosses it to the side, laughing, and stands up. Once again I am astonished at his grace and beauty. To think that I created such a being, with his icy-white skin, golden eyes and chiselled features.

'Fancy a game of chess?' he asks, gesturing to the set by the window. I sigh and glance at the clock.

'I should really be studying, I have a shift tomorrow...'

'Carlisle you are _always_ studying. Take a break for a moment. Besides, I have been meaning to talk to you about something.'

Intrigued I follow him over to the chess set and sit down. I am white, he is black, as usual. As he ponders his opening move he tells me what is on his mind.

'I have been thinking recently about taking classes at some point. My control is good, you know that, I can handle being around large crowds of humans now. And more than that, I wish to _do_ something with this life I have been given. It is not enough for me to stay near the house, playing the piano and taking occasional trips into town. You have your work at the hospital and that fulfills you. I need something like that for myself.'

I ponder his words as he moves his pawn forward one space. My fingers cradle the small dome of the bishop's head before I switch my attention to one of my knights. I make my move, the knight leaping over the heads of the pawns into the battleground.

'I understand that, Edward. I think it is a brilliant idea.'

He pauses. 'Really?'

'Were you expecting me to come up with a thousand objections?' I say lightly.

'Well, maybe not a _thousand_.'

I sigh. 'Your control is almost perfect, Edward. So long as nobody bleeds around you I do not fear for their safety. And you need something to get you out of this house, I agree with that. I am proud that you wish to pursue learning. What would you study?'

He shrugs, clearly not having thought this far ahead. Perhaps he thought I would shoot the idea down immediately. The idea makes me feel depressed and guilty. Have I really been stifling him that much?

'Music, maybe?' Again he glances up defensively as if expecting me to overrule his decision.

'You are certainly a skilled pianist,' I agree, deftly moving a pawn two spaces. 'A language might be helpful. French, perhaps.'

'I was thinking about that but...' he pauses and looks me in the eye. 'Do we have enough money for that, Carlisle? For me to study more than one subject? Tell me the truth.'

I laugh, startled. 'You were worried about that? Believe me, Edward. We have more than enough money. I have worked as a doctor for many years, after all.'

'How much do we have?'

'Enough.'

'Carlisle, come on, how much do we have? Then I know I will not have to feel guilty.'

Sighing to myself I name him a rough estimate. He whistles softly.

'So... definitely enough then.'

'Yes, Edward. Definitely enough. Enough for you to complete hundreds of degrees with funds to spare.'

**4****th**** December 1921**

**Esme's POV**

'Happy Birthday, my dear!' Doris stands on the doorstep cradling an enormous, brightly wrapped gift.

I smile and let her in.

'Twenty-six today! Do you know, I'm always surprised by how young you are. You seem so mature all the time.'

We enter the parlor where a few of my friends from the school are gathered amidst reams of wrapping paper.

The gifts range from presents for me to toys and essentials for the baby. I sit myself down on the couch. Nowadays I find it hard to stand for any length of time. My belly stretches in front of me like a separate continent and my feet continually ache, along with my back. Doris busies herself getting tea for everybody and when she is settled I reach for her present.

It is a beautifully crafted baby-blanket of soft white wool with a yellow ribbon bordering it. I cradle it to me and run my fingers over the material.

'I hope you like it, Esme,' she says anxiously. 'Of course, we don't know if it's a boy or a girl, so I thought yellow would be a nice neutral color.'

'It's lovely,' I say, tears welling in my eyes. 'Thank you so much, Doris.'

She waves my thanks away with an embarrassed hand. 'Think nothing of it, my dear. Lord knows I have enough time on my hands now that the children are all gone away. Did I tell you? My Mabel got engaged last week...'

I allow the comforting wash of gossip to flow over me as I relax back into the couch and press the blanket to my nose. It smells of organic wool and cleanliness. Not for the first time I thank God that my child will be born to this freedom and peace. A world without Charles for a father. My baby will never have to live in fear of a beating, will never have to worry about saying the wrong thing. A life without fear, which to some may seem a given.

As I rest my hand against my stomach I feel the baby kick against my hand. As always it stuns me and I sit, awestruck, waiting for another. There it is. A pressure against my palm. My child is not even born yet and already we have a connection.

It will not be long now. I have grown huge, many have commented on it. My small bag is packed ready for the journey to hospital and Mr. Keating, Mark, has promised to drive me at any hour in his car.

Slowly my gaze takes in all these people who have come over for me and only for me on my birthday. People who care enough about me to buy gifts for both me and my unborn child. It strikes me suddenly that despite all I went through with Charles, I am very lucky. I know many women do not manage to escape abusive relationships. And yet here I am, rebuilding my life, with friends and a child on the way. Lucky.

**Reviews are really much appreciated. This is a total labour of love on my part, something that I just had to write and so I will be updating regardless of if I get any feedback! Still, it is nice to hear what you guys think. xxxxx**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter was tricky. You'll understand why, I'm sure. I hope you, if not enjoy it, then at least appreciate it. Next chapter will be from Carlisle's POV.**

**Warnings: Angst and mature themes. Do not read if suicide is triggering for you.**

**Disclaimer: Twilight does not belong to me.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**13****th**** December 1921**

**Esme's POV**

The contractions begin early in the morning, at about five o'clock. I lie in bed for awhile, counting in my head and clutching at the sheets as every spasm hits. Finally, when they are coming only five minutes apart, I heave myself out of bed and hobble to the front door, pausing every few minutes to allow another cramp to pass.

My little suitcase stands ready in the hall and hurriedly I button myself into my coat as protection against the freezing weather outside. Jamming my hat onto my head, not bothering with pins, I leave the house and make my way to the Keating residence. Thank goodness they only live next-door. I am quite sure I would not have been able to walk any further.

As I ring their bell I lean against the stonework of the wall and moan low in my throat as another griping spasm takes hold. This is how Doris finds me when she opens the door.

'Oh my goodness! Is it coming?'

'I think so,' I murmur. 'The contractions are five minutes apart. I waited until I was sure before coming over, I didn't want to wake you unless it was necessary.'

'Oh, think nothing of it,' she exclaims, helping me into the house and hurrying off to rouse her husband.

In the space of a few minutes he is coming down the stairs yawning, his grey hair tousled. He has clearly got dressed in a hurry, his shirt is buttoned slightly wrong and his pants are rumpled. As I watch he heaves the braces up and over his shoulders and shrugs himself into his trench-coat.

'I'm so sorry to wake you,' I say apologetically, clutching at my stomach. He smiles at me slightly wearily.

'You know it isn't a problem, Mrs. Platt. Always happy to help. I'll go and get the car started up. You stay here and keep warm, I'll beep the horn when it's ready.'

It seems an age until the sound of the horn blares through the early morning stillness, although it cannot have been more than a couple of minutes. Doris, fussing around me, picks up my bag and follows me out.

The car ride is torture. I have to grip onto Doris's hand every few minutes and, bless her, if my grasp is painful she gives no indication. Instead she keeps up a litany of soothing words and rubs my back gently.

Mr. Keating is clearly driving as fast as he dares yet it seems like hours before we reach the hospital.

Once there I am whisked into a room by a doctor and a couple of nurses while Doris and Mr. Keating stay out in the waiting room. As the doctor probes and prods and finally makes his pronouncement I can't help wishing that it had been somebody else. Even after all this time I still long for the moment when my gaze meets a steady golden one. I still long to hear that soothing, gentle voice full of patience and kindness.

'Eight centimetres,' the doctor barks. 'Get ready, this baby's coming quickly.'

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**Two Hours Later**

Childbirth is, without a doubt, the most painful experience of my life. Far more so than Charles's various and innovative punishments. However this time I do not mind about the agony. I know there will be a prize beyond price at the end of it and sure enough, there is.

I cradle my little boy in my arms, staring down at his tiny, scrunched up face in awe. Gently I trace one fingertip down his cheek and a chubby hand emerges from the blankets they have swathed him in and he clutches onto my finger.

I am only barely aware that Doris has shuffled into the room and sat down on a chair next to the bed.

'Oh, Esme. He's beautiful. Do you have a name yet?'

'I was thinking of David.'

'That's lovely.' She peers down at him. 'It suits him.'

'Do you think so?'

She nods and carefully I hand him over to her, strangely reluctant to let him go for even a second. She cradles him easily and naturally and a surge of jealousy strikes me. Next to her I feel inadequate and clumsy, what if I somehow hurt him unintentionally? The thought makes me feel physically ill. Doris glances at me as if somehow knowing what I am thinking.

'It's natural to feel anxious, Esme,' she says quietly, handing David back to me. 'Becoming a mother is frightening, as I said before. But I will help you.'

His warm weight is comforting in my arms, he feels like he has always belonged there, cradled against my chest. The dark downy hairs on his head are nothing like Charles's auburn strands and I can see little of my husband in his features. He is his own person, completely unique.

Just then he draws in a rattling breath and begins to cry. It's a thin, weak sound, very unlike the lusty bawling of the other babies I have heard here in the maternity ward. I stare down at him anxiously, feeling his tiny body shake in my arms as he fights to draw breath.

'What's wrong with him?' I whisper anxiously.

Doris gets up. 'I'm not sure, I'll ring for the nurse.' She does so and then comes back to the bed. 'I'm sure it's nothing, Esme.' However her words cannot hide the concern in her eyes and I know this is not normal.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

'Mrs. Platt?' I glance up as the doctor enters, his white coat swishing. David lies in the crib next to the bed, having exhausted himself with crying. The doctor's eyes are kind, sympathetic. 'I wish I had better news. It's lung cancer.'

'What?' His words make no sense to me. _Cancer_. It's such an ugly word. How can it possibly be applicable to my darling boy? My David?

'Lung cancer.' He shrugs, his eyes infinitely warm. 'I'm very sorry but there's nothing we can do. He's too little and he was born prematurely. The best I can do is make him comfortable.'

'Comfortable?' I am aware my voice is rising, I am unable to halt the tide of furious anger which courses through me. '_Comfortable_? He is my _child_! You are a _doctor_! There has to be something you can do!'

Perhaps stirred out of his restless sleep by the noise, David wakes and begins to cry, the same rattling, unhealthy sound. Both of us glance towards the crib and shakily I get out of bed and scoop him up, clutching him tightly to my chest.

'It's too advanced. We do not have the resources or the medicine to fight it.'

'Get out,' I hiss through my teeth, turning to face him.

'Mrs. Platt...'

'Out. Get out. _Now_.'

He opens his mouth as if about to say something else and then leaves the room, his shoulders slumped in defeat. I cradle David close and stare absently over his head, soothing and shushing him by rubbing tiny circles on his back. As quickly as it had come the anger ebbed, leaving only an empty devastation in its wake. I know enough of medicine and illness to understand what the prognosis is.

My baby boy, my darling, will die. He does not have long, even now. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks and splash against his head. He squirms in my arms and squawks indignantly.

This is how Doris finds us, a couple of minutes later. By this time David has dropped off to sleep again and his velvety head is soaked with my tears.

'I'm so sorry, Esme,' she whispers hoarsely. 'The doctor told me.'

'I'm taking him home,' I announce suddenly, surprising myself. Doris blinks at me. 'I'm taking him back. There's nothing they can do for him here. I want him to be with me, in our house. I want...'

She reaches out a hand and pats my shoulder. 'It's all right, dear. I understand. Mark will be here in a few minutes with the car to pick me up. We'll check you out and take you home.'

**16****th**** December 1921**

David worsens day by day. At times I worry about my decision to take him from the hospital and back home with me and then I recall the doctor's words that there is nothing they could possibly do for him. Would I really rather spend the time closeted away in a ward with impersonal, bland decoration, never getting the chance to show David the outside?

No.

Now I wander around the small garden, pointing out the flowers and the trees to my infant son. He wheezes and gasps in my arms, but his deep blue eyes are round with wonder as he stares around at his surroundings. Despite his illness he seems to be an incredibly easy-tempered child who hardly ever cries.

At lunchtime I take him back inside and prop him on my lap as I breastfeed him. He gulps at the milk and yet some still manages to dribble down his chin and onto the cloth napkin I've tucked around his neck.

'Sweet baby,' I whisper, nuzzling into his soft hair and breathing in the pure and innocent scent.

In the afternoon Doris visits and dandles him on her lap. She does an admirable job of pretending that there is nothing wrong with him whatsoever.

'Isn't he adorable?' she coos, running a finger up his torso. He wheezes at her and then sneezes, his eyes widening as if shocked by the sound that has just come out of him.

I let her hold him for a little while but soon I take him back. I cannot stand anybody else touching him, not even Doris, and it takes all the propriety I have to sit still and smile rather than lunge towards her and snatch him out of her arms.

My time with him is precious, I realize that. I need to make every moment count.

Once Doris has gone and the afternoon begins to fade to twilight, I wander around the house with him, bouncing him up and down in my arms.

His breath is increasingly labored, his tiny face scrunched up tightly as he fights to breathe. I sink down onto the couch in the parlor and feel absolutely helpless as I rub his back.

'Breathe, Davey,' I whisper to him, pressing a kiss onto his head. 'Please, my darling. Just breathe. Breathe for Mommy.'

He gasps desperately as if trying hard to obey. It is no good. I am no doctor, but even I can tell his lungs are having trouble coping. Even I can tell he does not have months, not even days. He has merely hours.

Silently my tears drip down my cheeks as I cradle him to my chest. He does not cry. He does not whine or fuss. He just stares around the room and at me, and every breath is an effort.

I remember it clearly. The clock on the wall opposite shows ten minutes past ten. I should have put him down to sleep hours ago but some instinct in me forbade it. Instead I am sitting on the couch, just staring with him gazing back at me. There is only one time in my life where I have felt this connected to somebody else.

But Doctor Cullen is long gone. David is here, with me. My baby boy, struggling for life. As I stare at him he begins gasping and coughing, each harsh exhalation wracking his tiny body. I try to soothe him, but nothing works.

I remember the moment he drew his last breath. One long, rattling gasp. Anxiously I await the next one. It does not come. His tiny fingers go limp in my lap. His eyes are no longer staring at me. They're looking somewhere beyond.

I sit, stupefied.

'Breathe,' I snap angrily, clutching him tighter. There is no response. 'Breathe!' I scream at him and this time I raise him up and shake him slightly.

But his body is lifeless in my arms.

'David?' I ask, smoothing the sparse hairs on his head, cradling his skull. 'Davey? Come on, darling. Breathe for Mommy.'

His big blue eyes stare sightlessly as the ceiling, unheeding of my pleas.

Carefully I get up from the couch and go into my bedroom. Gently I lay David down in his crib, tucking his blanket in around him.

I change into my nightdress and sink down onto the mattress staring at nothing.

**17****th**** December 1921**

The clock in the hallway has just chimed five past two. I hear it ringing in my head but it sounds distant, almost like a sound muffled by heavy fog.

Slowly my gaze drifts to my son, still lying lifeless in his crib. I half expect it all to be some horrible mistake. That I will look at him and suddenly he will start crying. Or breathing. He doesn't. His body remains resolutely still under the blanket I have tucked him under.

I do not want him to get cold. He cannot get cold, that's dangerous for babies. I attempt to get to my feet and fall to the floor, my legs don't seem to want to hold me. I land awkwardly and shuffle towards the crib.

'Time to sleep now, Davey,' I whisper, reaching a hand over the wooden bars and stroking his head. 'Mommy will see you when you wake up. I'll be right there, sweetie.'

No time for changing clothes. I wander out into the hallway and bypass my coat, hat and shoes.

Why would I need them? I plan on joining my son in heaven very soon. What have I got left to live for on this earth? I have nothing. My parents are content in the knowledge that their daughter was being abused by her husband. My husband is a cowardly worm who takes pleasure in inflicting pain. The one good thing in my life lies dead in his crib.

The streets are freezing cold but I do not really notice the pain in my feet. I do not know where I am going, but I will know it when I find it. I drift through the streets like a phantom in my billowing ivory nightdress.

It seems no time at all until I reach the edge of the world. A magnificent cliff leading straight down to the frothing ocean. I curl my toes in the gravel at the edge and peer over. Yes. How apt that I should be led here. It makes perfect sense.

My gaze catches the smears of blood on the gravel. I am momentarily confused and then I realize that my feet must be bleeding.

I laugh slightly and stare up at the sky, at the multitude of stars burning brightly in the firmament. My son is up there. I reach a hand upwards as though if I stretch far enough I can somehow touch him.

'I'm coming, darling boy,' I murmur. 'Mommy's coming.'

The wind toys and snatches at my nightdress, whisking the material around my legs which have long since erupted in goosebumps.

Suddenly an image fills my mind. It is a bizarre vision to be sure, yet inexorably comforting. Doctor Cullen smiles at me, his golden eyes inexpressibly kind and warm. In his arms he cradles David who is smiling and laughing, reaching up with one tiny hand as if he wishes to tug at the curling golden hair on Doctor Cullen's head.

The two most important men in my life. Strange that I only knew them both for a few days. I have known my father all my life and yet now, at the end, I feel only indifference towards him. My husband I have been married to for four years exactly. Today is our anniversary. I only feel hatred towards him, mixed with a small amount of pity.

Doctor Cullen and David fill my mind. With their image, my mind is made up.

The air rushes past and the ground and the waves rise up to meet me. I am finally free.

**Reviews are always appreciated.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Hey all. This chapter is from Carlisle's POV and I hope you enjoy it. Still fairly angsty, obviously, but there's some cute, fluffy moments in it as well.**

**Warnings: Mentions of suicide and violence.**

**Disclaimer: Twilight has never, ever, ever, ever belonged to me. Sadly. Otherwise I'd be rich.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**17****th**** December 1921**

**Carlisle's POV**

'Did you hear about the fatality?' Doctor Starke asks me. I pause in the middle of checking my clipboard and glance up.

'Fatality?'

'Just brought in. Suicide. Jumped off a cliff, apparently. They're probably going to want you to call it as I'm finishing now. Seems pretty open and shut to me, though. They've already taken her to the morgue.'

I sigh heavily. Out of all my work as a doctor I loathe calling deaths the most. It always seems such a waste and every life lost sends a stab through my unbeating heart. I smile absently at Doctor Starke and he goes on his way, presumably to the staff room where he will change and head home.

I glance at the clock. It is half past four in the morning. I do not finish until five. Only half an hour. Enough time to call this death, easily.

Sure enough a harrassed nurse rushes up to me. She seems exhausted, with dark rings under her eyes.

'Doctor Cullen? They want you to certify a death down in the morgue.'

'I know. Suicide, yes?'

'How did you know?'

'Doctor Starke told me just now. I'll be right down.'

She nods and dashes away.

I make my way down to the morgue with a heavy heart. This is just what I needed to end my shift.

The morgue has a distinct smell of medicine and preservatives. The walls and floor are a pristine white tile and several iron beds are spread along its length. Many of them are empty at this moment. Groves, the attending mortician, meets me at the door.

'Doctor Cullen. I presume you have come to certify our Jane Doe?'

'Correct,' I say, sweeping between the rows of beds.

'Tragic, really,' he says, following along behind me. 'She's so young.'

The bed I am heading to is right at the end of the morgue. And yet as I approach a scent steals towards me on the air. A scent which is strangely familiar.

'Doctor Cullen?'

I realize I have stopped and shake my head slightly, as if attempting to clear it. For one of the first times in my existence, I am at a complete loss. I do not know what to do.

Hesitantly I carry on moving and soon enough I am standing before the bed which contains the suicidal woman.

_Esme_.

It is her. The scent did not lie. Her dark curls are spread over the metal surface, tangled and full of little pieces of grit. Her face, although it is bruised and bloody from a few cuts, is that of the girl I left in Columbus all those years ago. Her eyes are closed.

'You can leave,' I whisper to Groves, still standing stone still, staring down at the body. He shuffles awkwardly beside me.

'Leave, Doctor Cullen?'

'Yes,' I snap, slightly harsher than I meant to. 'I'm sure you have other things you can be doing. I've got this.'

'Of course,' he murmurs and then I hear his soft-soled shoes hurrying away. The slight clang of a door a few seconds later indicates that he has left. I allow my mask to slip and sink down into one of the chairs which has been placed by the bed.

How has this happened? How has the girl I once knew as being full of life and joyful ended up as this? A suicide victim in a morgue?

'Esme,' I whisper and reach out a hand to stroke back one of her curls. At the last moment I lose my nerve and my hand falls back to my lap. 'I'm so sorry.'

Then I hear it. It's very faint and a human would not hear it at all. But it is definitely there. A panicky, fluttery heartbeat. She is not yet dead. I do not blame the attending doctors for bringing her straight in here. It has taken me until now to realize that she is alive.

'Esme?' I say, standing up. Carefully I lean over her and take her vitals with a cool finger pressed to her neck. Sure enough a weak pulse beats under my flesh and I sit back down, cradling my head in my hands. What am I supposed to do?

She is on the brink of death, that much is easy for me to see. She does not have long. Hours, perhaps even minutes. Her heartbeat is irregular and it would not surprise me in the least to learn that her internal organs are probably damaged beyond repair.

I could leave her to die. I could certify the death certificate and walk out of here and allow her the death she had so plainly wished for.

I rub my fingers at my temples and groan, low in my chest. I cannot do that. I cannot just abandon her to death. That young girl full of life and vitality once again fills my mind. It would be a crime to allow someone with such a beautiful spirit to die.

And yet, who am I fooling? _I_ do not want her to die. It may be all my imagination but I have a feeling that Esme and I have been connected somehow from the moment we met. Her coming back into my life, even in this manner, seems to me a sign.

I could save her. I could bite her now and whisk her home and nobody would be any the wiser. The doctors here, and Groves, they all believe her to be dead. I could say that I merely signed the certificate and sent off her body to the undertakers. It is often done with unidentified corpses. They would never have to know that actually I can identify her.

_No_. What am I thinking? Am I honestly considering condemning _another_ human to this life of eternal damnation? Am I really that selfish? Esme wanted to die, surely the honorable thing to do would be to honor her wish. And Edward, how on earth would he react when I brought her back home, writhing in agony, in the process of turning into one of us? We would have to move again, and just as Edward is getting accustomed to Ashland and his classes at the local school.

I am not aware how long I sit by her bed, but surely dawn cannot be far away. Mostly I stare at her, taking in every little detail of her long-remembered face. It is still heart-shaped and pale, more so now that all the blood in her body is fighting to keep her alive. Her eyes are closed but if they were open they would be the beautiful hazel-green I remember so vividly.

She is clad in a nightdress which is now ripped, sodden and dirty. I try to imagine what sort of state she must have been in when she decided she would take her own life without even putting on a coat or shoes, and cannot. Absently I notice that the soles of her feet are bloody and torn.

There are scratches and bruises on her arms and what I can see of her lower legs. Injuries sustained in the fall, no doubt. Suddenly, I peer closer. There are older wounds here, ones that have healed over but have left scars. They litter her upper arms. I frown to myself. What on earth could have happened to have caused these injuries?

My gaze travels down her left arm to her hand, where I spot a dull, gold band on her wedding finger. She is married then. Where is her husband? Will he be trying to find her?

All these questions race through my mind but there are no answers. Only Esme can provide the truth, all I can do is guess and conjecture.

Suddenly her heart falters and stops. I gasp, inadvertantly, and one hand flies to my mouth. No. Not now, she can't die. Not now.

As if her body has somehow heard my unspoken plea, her heartbeat stutters into life once more, like a faulty engine, but it is even fainter than it was before.

My mind is made up. I cannot allow Esme to die in this dark, cold place.

Before I can fully think through what I am doing, yet again, I lean forwards over her inert body and sink my teeth into the flesh of her neck. Her pulse is weak and so the blood is sluggish as it swamps my mouth. My eyes fly wide open. The taste... it is more alluring than anything I have ever had before, more tempting even than Edward's.

It takes everything in my power, every single iota of self-control that I possess to stop and pull myself away. As I release her and spit the blood out in the sink attached to the wall, a hideous thought crosses my mind. What if her injuries are so severe that even my venom cannot overcome it? There has never been an experiment conducted as to the limits of damage the venom can heal.

Horrified I return to her side and again her blood fills my palette. I am prepared for the taste this time and so it is easier to just allow my venom to mix for a few seconds and then I am back at the sink, desperately spitting and rinsing my mouth with water.

Esme has begun to moan quietly, a continuous sound of pain. There is no time to waste. If I am discovered here with her in this state all hell will break loose. Carefully I gather her into my arms and cannot help cherishing the opportunity to be able to do so, even under such circumstances. There is a back way out of the morgue, mainly used by the morticians and attendants to dump the trash. If I go out that way I can head home via the back streets to be avoid being seen and be back before dawn breaks.

Luck is on my side and soon I am speeding down the small track which leads to our isolated house on the outskirts of Ashland. I know Edward is in by the scent on the air and I am aware he will have already been able to read my thoughts.

Sure enough he blazes out of the door and we stop in the midde of the drive, staring at each other, Esme's crumpled figure clutched tightly to my chest.

'What have you _done_?' he spits at me, his eyes alight with fury. 'Carlisle! How _could_ you?'

'Not now, Edward,' I reply, sprinting past him into the house. He follows me as I make my way through to the back bedroom upstairs and lay Esme down on the spare bed. She writhes on the blankets, rumpling the already ruined nightgown. Edward stares down at her, his face contorted in a rictus of pain.

'I can't be here, Carlisle,' he manages and before I can move or speak he has flown downstairs. In another few seconds I hear the back door slam shut, and moving to the window of the bedroom I see him flashing across the lawn in the early morning sun towards the forest. Groaning I sit down on the floorboards near the wall and clutch my head in my hands. He is completely right. How could I? What was I thinking?

I guess the obvious answer to that is, I wasn't. I wasn't thinking, wasn't using my head. I let emotion and desperation get the better of me and now I am here with my one companion vanished and a girl I met twice years ago whimpering with pain on the bed as she begins the painful transformation into one of the eternally damned.

Will I ever learn? I swore to myself that Edward was going to be the first and only one, and now here I am, three years later, in exactly the same position.

Esme's face is flushed and beads of sweat are trickling down her temple and soaking her hair. The venom is beginning to spread properly and any thoughts I might have had about it not working are answered in the next instant.

That's when she begins to scream.

**18****th**** December 1921**

Edward returns early the next day. I have not shifted from my spot, unable to move, fixed in place as I endure her relentless shrieks of agony.

Edward stands at the threshold, his hands clamped over his ears, his face set and stony. Without saying a word he jerks his head and disappears back downstairs. Although I do not wish to leave Esme by herself, I know that Edward deserves this much from me at least. He deserves for me to hear him out.

I catch up with him in the back garden, where presumably the atmosphere is easier for him to handle.

_I am so, so sorry, Edward_.

'I know,' he responds harshly. 'Sorry isn't going to make this situation any better though, is it, Carlisle? You swore to yourself you wouldn't do this again! Have you learnt nothing? I thought you were supposed to be the wise one, the _compassionate _one.' He waves an arm towards the upstairs window, where Esme's screams can still distantly be heard. 'Is this your idea of _compassion_?'

'I honestly do not know what I was thinking, Edward,' I plead, raking a hand through my hair and taking a tentative step towards him. He holds up a hand to stop me.

'Don't come near me, Carlisle. I might kill you and I would probably regret it later.'

Sadly I stop and allow him to formulate his next assault.

'She _wanted_ to die!' he shouts eventually. 'She committed suicide! And who are you to deny her? Do you think you are some sort of _God_?'

'You know I don't, Edward,' I respond calmly. 'Nothing could be further from the truth.' He changes tack in a split second.

'No, you'd rather she becomes a monster like us.'

'I thought you said we weren't monsters.'

He goggles at me and then screams in frustration, clamping his hands into his chaotic hair so hard I feel sure he is going to pull some out.

'This is so far beyond okay, Carlisle,' he groans eventually, sinking to his knees in the grass. 'Another newborn. You know what I was like.'

'This spot is isolated,' I say desperately. 'We can teach her to control...'

'Oh, _we_?' he spits. 'You've made this a joint effort now, have you? And what if I go? What if I decide I cannot live here and just leave? What are you going to do then? Live your perfect little life with Esme and forget all about me?'

'You know it would devastate me if you left,' I whisper. 'You _know_. If you don't, feel free to read my thoughts. I thought you understood how important you are to me.' I cock my head and frown at him. 'Is this what this is truly about? You are frightened she will become more important to me than you?'

Edward barks out a bitter laugh. 'Oh, please don't flatter yourself, Carlisle. Contrary to what you may think, my entire world does not revolve around you. I couldn't care less.'

I take a step backwards. I had been prepared for the venom he would hurl in my direction but still his words sting.

'You need some time,' I murmur. 'I do understand that, Edward. I know this isn't easy for you...'

'Stop being so damn noble!' he shouts. 'I can't stand it when you do that!'

I raise both my hands and turn to start walking back to the house. Suddenly I stop and turn around.

'If you can, could you please take a visit into town? Esme will need some clothes for when she wakes up, I doubt she will take kindly to wandering around in that nightdress and besides it wouldn't be... proper.'

'Oh, he's worried about proper,' Edward hisses to himself. 'Saint Carlisle isn't concerned with the fact he's doomed yet another innocent person to eternal damnation, no, he's worried about the propriety of the situation.'

I realize that staying will only infuriate Edward more and so without a word I return to the house and to Esme. To my lonely vigil.

**19****th**** December 1921**

Despite what Edward threatened, I know he hasn't left. Occasionally I hear him downstairs, clattering around, hammering at his piano keys. The music he plays varies in mood from sorrowful and melancholy to angry and destructive.

At around four o'clock in the afternoon, despite Esme's continuous screams of pain, I hear him approach the door and drop something before he moves back downstairs. Curious, I open the door and find a parcel tied with brown string. On top is a note in Edward's cursive script.

_I still haven't forgiven you, Carlisle._

Rapidly I unwrap the box and find a couple of dresses, a packet of stockings, a few shawls, a good-quality woollen coat, a felt hat and a pair of size seven women's shoes. In a smaller package is a hairbrush and some underwear which I fold away hastily beneath the rest of the clothes, feeling as though I shouldn't have looked.

'My thanks, Edward,' I call, knowing he can hear me. There is no response, but then I hadn't expected one.

Later that evening I decide the silence has continued long enough and so I reluctantly leave the confines of what I have now come to think of as Esme's bedroom and head downstairs. Edward is sitting on the couch in the parlor, leafing through some piano music, but he glances up as I approach.

'I know what you're going to say,' he announces without any preamble. I laugh.

'Of course you do.'

'Yes, I will come up with you later.' He grimaces to himself. 'In a strange way I find myself oddly excited to see a vampire transformation.'

'We shouldn't get too close,' I warn him. 'Becoming a newborn is a very disorientating and confusing time, as I am sure you remember. She will be waking up in a strange room, with strange abilities and with two strange men present. She is bound to be unpredictable.'

Edward folds his music carefully away in his leather folder and places it on the side-table.

'Do you think she'll have any abilities? Like mine, for instance?'

I shrug. 'I have no idea, Edward. I suppose we'll just have to find out.'

'What about her husband? I saw the wedding ring, Carlisle, don't think I didn't. Isn't he going to be worried about her?'

I don't answer for awhile, because exactly the same question has been plaguing me for the last few days.

**20****th**** December 1921**

The clock says is is just getting on for half-past five in the morning. Edward and I stand anxiously near the doorway of Esme's room. Edward is fidgety, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

'Shouldn't something be happening by now?' he whispers, his eyes fixed on Esme's tortured form.

'She was virtually dead when I bit her,' I respond calmly, although the thought has occurred to me. 'It's only natural that perhaps the venom has had to work a little harder to transform her.'

'I just don't like hearing it,' Edward confesses. 'She's in _agony_, Carlisle. It's making me remember my own turning.'

'It will be over soon,' I reassure him. 'Listen. I think her heartbeat is speeding up. Can you hear it?'

It is a silly question. Of course he can, our hearing is superb, capable of picking up even the minutest sound over a distance of miles.

Esme's frantically pounding heartbeat continues for about two minutes longer and then suddenly beats its last and falls silent. Edward and I are motionless, not even breathing or blinking as we stare at her.

The dirty, matted caramel hair is beginning to thicken and curl on the pillows of the bed. It is not quite ringlets but close, gentle waves which gleam in the light of the lamp on the dresser. Her waxy skin becomes pure-white and smooth, all the dirt vanishing. As we watch I can see the many scars which litter her skin fade and melt away. Her lashes lengthen from where they lie on her frozen cheek and a rosy hue flushes her face. Her broken and shattered bones draw together with a harsh snapping sound which makes Edward jolt slightly in alarm. I rest a hand on his shoulder to reassure him as the venom continues its work and we see the lacerations on her feet vanish.

Edward draws in a breath as we watch Esme's previously blue lips redden. 'Is that it?' he whispers in a voice almost too low for even me to hear.

'Yes,' I murmur back, unable to take my eyes off Esme. Her beauty as a human was sweet and natural. Her loveliness as a member of our species is truly something to behold. I have never seen anyone quite so perfect.

There is utter silence for a moment or two and then the thick dark lashes flutter and her eyes open to stare up at the ceiling.

'Miss Platt?' I murmur quietly, holding out a hand to warn Edward to keep back while I step forwards. 'Can you hear me?'

Her head twists on the pillows so that her newly-crimson eyes are staring directly at me. Once again I struggle to reconcile the images of Esme I have in my mind. I have Esme at sixteen years of age, a rosy-cheeked, smiling, shy farmer's daughter with a taste for climbing trees. I have Esme lying on a mortuary slab, broken almost beyond repair. And now this red-eyed newborn, who is truly a stranger to me and yet more familiar than anybody else.

'I can hear you, Doctor Cullen.'

Her voice is like the sun breaking through clouds, like the soft whisper of a clear stream trickling over a bed of rocks. She does not seem alarmed by the change in her tone. Her gaze continues steadfastedly.

'I had hoped you would be here.' I frown a little, my brows drawing together in puzzlement. Edward shifts slightly behind me and coughs a little in his throat, a sign that he wishes to talk to me urgently. 'Where is David?' Esme continues, her gaze shifting for the first time to look around the room. She stares at Edward for a moment or two and smiles.

'Gabriel? Or perhaps Michael?'

Edward now steps forward and grasps my shoulder. 'Carlisle, I need to talk to you. _Now_.' His voice is low and urgent. I shake my shoulder free from his hold.

'I cannot leave her.'

'She thinks she's in heaven, Carlisle!' Edward's voice raises a little. 'She thinks I'm an angel and you're...' he throws his hands up in exasperation. 'I don't know, God or something.'

'Ah,' I say, as I turn back to face Esme who is staring at us with a politely confused expression on her face.

'Miss Platt...' I begin, 'I do not know how to say this but, you are not in heaven.'

She sits upright and swings her legs off the side of the bed, the ripped and soiled nightdress fluttering around her knees. She cocks her head slightly and rubs absently at her throat.

'Not in heaven?' Her eyes widen slightly. 'This... this cannot be hell. Not with you here.'

'You, remember me?' I hazard, stepping forwards once more. She beams.

'Doctor Cullen I could hardly forget you. I realize now you were my guardian angel, sent to protect me and look after me...' her words trail off and her gaze darkens. She stares down at the floor.

'Miss Platt, you are not in heaven or hell. You are still on earth but you are no longer technically human. You are immortal, a vampire. I turned you when you were brought into the mortuary at the hospital where I work.'

Esme is a statue, frozen in place. With her gaze still locked on the floor it is impossible to tell what she is thinking. I glance at Edward for a little assistance. He is gritting his teeth and staring at Esme, and the pain of her thoughts is evident in his face. Suddenly he turns on his heel and runs from the room.

The sound of his departure does at least make Esme raise her head, although when she does I begin to wish she'd remained staring at the floor. There is such loss, desolation and fury in her eyes that I feel like I am being scorched where I stand.

'A vampire? I am not that silly sixteen-year-old anymore, Doctor Cullen. Vampires do not exist.'

'Miss Platt, please listen to me. I know it is a lot to take in but what I am telling you is the truth. Your vision is different, your hearing is much sharper than it was before, isn't it?'

She frowns. 'It...' She glances around the room once more, before returning her eyes to my face, her expression now distinctly panicked.

'Count the colors, Miss Platt. How many colors can you see?'

A slack amazement takes hold of her as she unconsciously bites at her lip. 'There... there is another color... I have no name for it...'

'It is beyond the human spectrum,' I say, hating myself for putting that spark of fear in her eyes.

'You, you do not look any different,' she says wonderingly, standing up from the bed at last and taking a few hesitant steps in my direction. We are now standing only a few feet from each other. 'I last saw you ten years ago and _you do not look any different!_' Her voice is rising towards hysteria. Before I realize what I have done I am right in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

'We do not age,' I say calmly, although my mind is reeling. 'The years do nothing to our looks or bodies. We are immortal.'

'This is too much,' she murmurs, turning away from me and pacing towards the window of the room. 'I wished to die, I wished to join my Davey in heaven. Why did you take that from me? I could have been happy.' Her tone is quiet and resigned. It is much worse than if she had shouted and screamed at me.

'I wanted to give you a chance,' I say, rubbing a hand over my face, knowing not to step nearer her. 'I couldn't leave you lying in that morgue. I am truly sorry.'

'My throat is on fire,' she says absently, rubbing at her neck. 'What is happening to me?'

'You are thirsty,' I respond, wondering where on earth Edward has got to. Just when I need him to tell me what she is thinking, he disappears.

She spins around to face me, horror-struck. 'Thirsty?' she echoes, her voice redolent with dismay. 'Do you mean...?'

'Blood, yes. But please, do not worry. Myself and my companion, we do not kill or hurt humans. I found out shortly after my own turning that I could survive on the blood of animals. That is what we hunt.'

Her gaze is still wild but it has calmed a little. 'Animals?'

'It quenches the thirst and allows us to live, without taking human life.' I attempt a smile. 'I know it may not seem like it now, Miss Platt, but I do not wish to be a monster. I could never harm a human, it is simply not my nature.'

Without saying a word she returns to sit on the side of the bed, her hand still rubbing at her throat. There is silence for a long while and I let my senses range out to try and locate Edward. It seems he is far away, he has probably gone hunting. Briefly it crosses my mind what sort of thoughts he must have heard in Esme's head to make him act this way but before I can reflect too much on it, Esme speaks again.

'This situation is fairly intense, so I believe we can dispense with the pleasantries, Doctor Cullen. You may call me Esme if you wish. The gentleman who was here earlier, I believe he called you Carlisle?'

I bow slightly, unable to help the smile which crosses my face. 'You are correct. My name is Carlisle Cullen.'

She stares at me for a second before her lips quirk upwards in a smile to match mine. 'I always did wonder what your first name could be. I was sure it was something beautiful, and it is.'

I am sure that had I been human, my face would have been flushing furiously. 'My companion is Edward Masen.'

'He was not with you when you treated my leg,' she observes.

'No. I turned him in the summer of nineteen-eighteen. He was dying of the Spanish Influenza. Forgive me, you are thirsty. We should go hunting so you can ease the burning in your throat.'

Esme stands again and glances down at her nightdress. A flicker of pain crosses her face and her eyes become almost cloudy for a second before she glances up again. 'I can hardly go out like this, Carlisle. It would not be exactly proper.'

Smiling I dart out of the room and return in a second with the package containing her new clothes. Her eyes widen slightly, presumably at the speed at which I move.

'You will soon become used to your new abilities,' I promise, laying the package on the bed before moving to the door. 'The bathroom is in there,' I point at the doorway to the right of the room. 'I hope the clothes are to your satisfaction.'

She raises an eyebrow and smiles slightly. 'You bought clothes for me?'

I shift from foot to foot, clutching hard at the wood of the doorframe. 'I did not think you would appreciate wandering around in that nightdress.' I turn to leave and then spin to face her once more. 'There is a mirror in the bathroom. Please, try not to be too surprised at what you see. You look different to how you did before.' With that remark I leave and shut the door quietly behind me. Once out in the corridor I lean against the wall and breathe deeply for a few seconds, a very human gesture, but something which I have found still calms me.

She is not the same. I would have been foolish to expect everything to go smoothly but somehow I still did. Somehow I expected her to wake and be the girl I met ten-years-ago. I do not need to have Edward's power of mind-reading to know that something has scarred her deeply in the intervening years since we last saw each other. Her fiery vitality has been quenched somehow, and I only hope that it has not been extinguished completely.

From inside the room I hear a muted gasp and I know that she has looked in the mirror. I listen intently, trying to establish whether she needs me, but all continues silent.

A few minutes later, evidently she has been getting used to her new speed, the door to my left clicks open and I stand away from the wall.

The clothes fit her perfectly, Edward has done a good job. The dress flatters her slightly curvy frame, clinging tightly to her waist and flaring out over her hips. She smooths the fabric with anxious fingers and raises her eyes to me.

'Will I do?'

'You have never looked more lovely,' I respond honestly and without thinking. She smiles shyly at me and then clasps her hands together.

'You'll have to show me what to do.' The words are bold but I can tell there is an underlying anxiety.

'Of course.' I smile back at her and extend my arm. 'It is as easy as anything, it just takes a little practise and we have all the time in the world.'

**That's it for now. Hope you liked! Reviews are always appreciated.**


End file.
